ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


5'J. 
H 


V 


FUK1>  M.  1 


MR.  RUPERT  DE  RUYTER  COULD  NOT  UK  KEPT  AWAY  FROM  HIS 
OWN  PORTRAIT" 


BY 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1894 


BOOKS  BY   BRANDER   MATTHEWS. 


THE  THEATRES  OF  PARIS. 

FRENCH  DRAMATISTS  OF  THE  19TH  CENTURY. 

THE  LAST  MEETING,  a  Story. 

A  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA,  and  Other  Stories. 

PEN  AND  INK  :   Essays  on  Subjects  of  More  or  Less  Importance. 

A  FAMILY  TREE,  and  Other  Stories. 

WITH  MY  FRIENDS:  Tales  Told  in  Partnership. 

A  TALE  OF  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS. 

TOM  PAULDING,  a  Story  for  Boys. 

IN  THE  VESTIBULE  LIMITED,  a  Story. 

AMERICANISMS  AND  BRITICISMS,  with  Other  Essays  on  Other  Isms. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  STORY,  and  Other  Stories. 

THE  DECISION  OF  THE  COURT,  a  Comedy. 

STUDIES  OF  THE  STAGE. 

THIS  PICTURE  AND  THAT,  a  Comedy. 

VIGNETTES  OF  MANHATTAN. 

THE  ROYAL  MARINE,  an  Idyl  of  Narra^ansett. 


Copyright,  1804,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  ri'jhtt  reiervcd. 


TO 

THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

My  dear  Theodore, —  You  knoio—for  we  have  talked  it  over  often 
enough — that  I  do  not  hold  you  to  be  a  typical  New-  Yorker,  since 
you  come  of  Dutch  stock,  and  first  saw  the  light  7iere  on  Manhattan 
Island,  whereas  the  typical  New  -  Yorker  is  born  of  New  England 
parents,  perhaps  somewhere  west  of  the  Alleghanies.  You  know,  ' 
also,  that  often  the  typical  New-  Yorker  is  not  proud  of  the  city  of 
his  choice,  and  not  so  loyal  to  it  as  we  could  wish.  He  has  no  abid 
ing  concern  for  this  maligned  and  misunderstood  town  of  ours;  he 
does  not  thrill  with  pride  at  the  sight  of  its  powerful  and  irregular 
profile  as  he  comes  back  to  it  across  Hie  broad  rivers;  nor  is  his 
heart  lifted  up  with  joy  at  the  sound  of  its  increasing  roar,  so  sug 
gestive  and  so  stimulating.  But  we  have  a  firm  affection  for  New 
York,  you  and  I,  and  a  few  besides;  we  like  it  for  what  it  is;  and 
we  love  it  for  what  we  hope  to  see  it. 

It  is  because  of  this  common  regard  for  our  strange  and  many- 
sided  city  that  I  am  giving  myself  the  pleasure  of  proffering  to  you 
this  little  volume  of  vignettes.  They  are  not  stories  really,  I  am 
afraid — not  sketches  even,  nor  studies;  they  are,  I  think,  just  what 
1  have  called  them — vignettes.  And  there  are  a  dozen  of  them,  one 
for  every  month  in  the  year,  an  urban  calendar  of  times  and 
seasons.  Such  as  they  are,  I  beg  that  you  will  accept  them  in  token 
of  my  friendship  and  esteem  ;  and  that  you  will  believe  me,  always, 

Yours  truly, 

BKANDEU  MATTHEWS 

New  York,  May,  1804 


4!  944 


CONTENTS 


IN   THE    LITTLE    CHURCH    DOWN   THE    STREET.  3 

//THE    TWENTY-NINTH    OF   FEBRUARY        ...  13 

AT   A   PRIVATE    VIEW 25 

SPRING   IN   A    SIDE    STREET 41 

/V*A   DECORATION-DAY    RE  VERY 53 

IN   SEARCH    OF   LOCAL    COLOR          .       .       .       .       .  67 

BEFORE    THE    BREAK    OF    DAY 85 

A   MIDSUMMER   MIDNIGHT     .......  101 

A    VISTA    IN    CENTRAL    PARK 123 

/''•THE    SPEECH    OF    THE    EVENING 135 

A   THANKSGIVING-DAY    DINNER 151 

IN   THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE         ...              .  167 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"MR.    RUPERT    DE    RUYTER    COULD    NOT     BE    KEPT 

AWAY    FROM   HIS    OWN    PORTRAIT"    ....  Frontispiece 

THE    FUNERAL Facing  page         4 

"AND  THEN  SHE  STARED  STRAIGHT  BEFORE  HER"  8 
"PEOPLE  WHO  THRONGED  THE  FLOOR  WERE  WELL- 
NIGH  AS   VARIOUS   AS   THE    PAINTINGS  "      .       .  "              26 
"  '  MR.  J.  WARREN    PAYN,  THE    COMPOSER '  "  .       .       .  28 
"  MR.  DELANCEY    JONES,  THE    ARCHITECT,   WITH    HIS 

PRETTY    WIFE 30 

"  SHE  OVERHEARD  TWO  ART  STUDENTS  DISCUSSING  "  "               34 
"  SEEMINGLY     IT     WAS     THE     PRACTICE     HOUR     FOR 

ONE    OF    THE    CHILDREN    NEXT    DOOR"     ...  44 

HE   WISHED   HIMSELF   IN   THE   COUNTRY     ....  46 

"DISTRACTED  BY  THE  CROSSING  SHOUTS  OF  LOUD- 
VOICED  MEN  " 48 

"  THE  BRIDE  OF  THAT  AFTERNOON  " "           50 

"  AT  RIVINGTON  STREET  AND  THE  BOWERY "    .     .  68 

IN  MULBERRY  BEND 70 

MULBERRY  STREET  FRUIT- VENDERS "          72 

ITALIAN  MOTHER  AND  CHILD 74 

"  '  I  SAW  HIM  NOT  TEN  MINUTES  AGO  '  "     .     .     .  "          82 

HE  BELONGED  TO  A  "GANG" 92 

"A  LITTLE  DRUNKER  THAN  USUAL"       ....  "         '94 


Vlll  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  '  DROP   THAT  !'    HE    CRIED  " Facing  pagt       96 

"  '  I   SIZED   YOU   UP   WHEN   YOU    COME    IN  '  "       .       .  "  102 

'"i  DON'T  GO  MUCH  ON  CIGARS'" "  106 

'"THAT'S  BULLY,'  HE  CRIED" "  108 

"THAT  WALL  BEHIND  HIM  WAS  BECOMING  HOTTER"  u  116 

"THE  OCCUPANT  OP  THE  NEXT  BED"  ....  "  120 

YOUNG  COUPLES  SEEKING  SEQUESTERED  NOOKS  .  "  124 

"TWO  SLIM  JAPANESE  GENTLEMEN"  ....  "  126 

UA  KNOT  OP  LAUGHING  MULATTO  GIRLS "  .  .  "  128 
"  '  NOWHERE  ELSE  WOULD  A  FEAST  LIKE  THIS  BE 

GRACED  BY  SO  MANY  LOVELY  WOMEN5"  .  "  142 

COMING  FROM  CHURCH "  154 

"  WHITE  SECURED  A  SMALL  TABLE  NEAR  THE 

CORNER" "  160 

AN  IDEAL  DAY  FOR  THE  FOOT-BALL  GAME  ...  "  162 


®  i  ®  i  ®  i  ®  I  ®  I!  ®  BJ  ®  III  ®  lil  ®  III  ®  111  @  III 


)HE  little  church  stands  back  from  the 
street,  with  a  scrap  of  lawn  on  either 
side  of  the  path  that  winds  from  the 
iron  gate  to  the  church  door.  On 
this  chill  January  morning  the  snow 
lay  a  foot  deep  on  the  grass-plots,  with  the  wa 
ter  frozen  out  of  it  by  the  midnight  wind.  The 
small  fountain  on  one  side  was  sheathed  with  ice; 
and  where  its  tiny  spirtle  fell  a  glittering  stalag 
mite  was  rising  rapidly,  so  the  rotund  sparrows 
had  difficulty  in  getting  at  their  usual  drinking- 
trough.  The  sky  was  ashen,  yet  there  was  a  hope 
that  the  sun  might  break  out  later  in  the  morn 
ing.  A  sharp  breeze  blew  down  the  street  from 
the  river,  bearing  with  it,  now  and  again,  the  tin 
kle  of  sleigh-bells  from  the  Avenue,  only  fifty 
yards  away. 

There  was  the  customary  crowd  of  curious 
idlers  gathered  about  the  gate  as  the  hearse  drew 
up  before  it.  The  pall-bearers  alighted  from  the 
carriages  which  followed,  and  took  up  their  posi 
tions  on  the  sidewalk,  while  the  undertaker's  as 
sistants  were  lifting  out  the  coffin.  Then  the 
bareheaded  and  gray-haired  rector  came  from  out 
the  church  porch,  and  went  down  to  the  gate  to 


OF  MANHATTAN 


meet  the  funeral  procession.  He  held  the  prayer- 
book  open  in  his  hand,  and  when  he  came  to  the 
coffin  he  began  to  read  the  solemn  words  of  the 
order  for  the  burial  of  the  dead : 

"I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the 
Lord  :  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live  :  and  whosoever  liveth  and 
believeth  in  me,  shall  never  die." 

Preceding  the  pall  -  bearers  the  rector  led  the 
way  to  the  church,  which  was  already  filled  with 
the  dead  actor's  comrades  and  with  his  friends, 
and  with  mere  strangers  who  had  come  out  of 
curiosity,  and  to  see  actresses  by  daylight  and  off 
the  stage.  The  interior  was  dusky,  although  the 
gas  had  been  lighted  here  and  there.  The  Christ 
mas  greens  still  twined  about  the  pillars,  and  still 
hung  in  heavy  festoons  from  the  low  arched  roof. 
As  the  coffin  passed  slowly  through  the  porch, 
the  rector  spoke  again  : 

"We  brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  it 
is  certain  we  can  carry  nothing  out.  The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away  ;  blessed  be 
the  Name  of  the  Lord." 

Throughout  the  church  there  was  a  stir,  and  all 
heads  were  turned  towards  the  entrance.  There 
were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  more  than  one  man,  for 
the  actor  had  been  a  favorite,  and  not  a  few  wom 
en  were  weeping  silently.  In  a  pew  near  the  door 
were  two  young  actresses  who  had  been  in  the 
same  company  with  the  dead  man  when  he  had 
made  his  first  appearance  on  the  stage,  only  three 


IRK    FUNERAL 


IN    THE    LITTLE    CI1UKCII    DOWN    THE    STKEET      5 

years  before  ;  and  now,  possessed  by  the  emotion 
of  the  moment,  these  two  sobbed  aloud.  By  their 
side  stood  a  tall,  handsome,  fair -haired  woman, 
evidently  not  an  actress ;  she  was  clad  in  simple 
black ;  she  gave  but  a  single  glance  at  the  cof 
fin  as  it  passed  up  the  aisle,  half  hidden  by  the 
heaped-up  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  then  she  stared 
straight  before  her,  with  a  rigid  face,  but  with 
out  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

Slowly  the  rector  preceded  the  pall-bearers  up 
the  central  aisle  of  the  church,  while  the  vestured 
choir  began  the  stately  anthem  : 

"Lord,  let  me  know  my  end,  and  the  number 
of  my  days  ;  that  I  may  be  certified  how  long  I 
have  to  live. 

"  Behold,  thou  hast  made  my  days  as  it  were  a 
span  long,  and  mine  age  is  even  as  nothing  in  re 
spect  of  thee  ;  and  verily  every  man  living  is  al 
together  vanity." 

It  was  for  a  young  man  that  this  solemn  an 
them  was  being  sung — for  a  man  who  had  died 
in  his  twenty -fifth  year,  at  the  moment  of  his 
first  success,  and  when  life  opened  temptingly  be 
fore  him.  He  bore  a  name  known  in  American 
history,  and  his  friends  had  supposed  that  he 
would  be  called  to  the  bar,  like  his  father  and 
his  grandfather  before  him.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  with  a  speaking  eye  and  a  rich, 
alluring  voice  ;  and  his  father's  friends  saw  in 
him  a  moving  advocate.  But  the  year  he  was 
graduated  from  college  his  father  had  died,  and 


6  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

his  mother  also,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the  world. 
As  it  happened,  his  father's  investments  were  ill- 
advised,  and  there  was  little  or  no  income  to  be 
hoped  from  them  for  years.  In  college  he  had 
been  the  foremost  member  of  the  dramatic  club, 
and  in  the  summer  vacations  he  had  taken  part  in 
many  private  theatricals.  Perhaps  it  had  always 
been  his  secret  wish  to  abandon  the  bar  for  the 
stage.  While  he  was  debating  the  course  he 
should  take,  chance  threw  in  his  way  the  offer  of 
an  engagement  in  the  company  which  support 
ed  a  distinguished  tragedian.  He  had  accepted 
what  opportunity  proffered,  and  it  was  not  as  a 
lawyer  but  as  an  actor  that  he  had  made  his 
living  ;  it  was  as  an  actor  that  his  funeral  was 
now  being  held  at  "  the  little  church  down  the 
street." 

While  the  choir  had  been  singing  the  anthem, 
the  coffin  had  been  borne  to  the  chancel  and  set 
down  before  the  rail,  which  was  almost  concealed 
from  sight  by  the  flowers  scattered  about  the 
steps  and  clustering  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit  and 
in  front  of  the  reading-desk.  The  thick  and  cloy 
ing  perfume  of  the  lilies  was  diffused  throughout 
the  church. 

The  rector  had  taken  his  place  at  the  desk  in 
the  chancel  to  read  the  appointed  lesson,  with  its 
message  of  faith  and  love.  There  were  sobs  to  be 
heard  when  he  declared  that  this  mortal  shall  put 
on  immortality. 

"  Then  shall  be  brought  to  pass  the  saying  that 


IN   THE    LITTLE    CIIUKCII    DOWN    THE    STEEET      7 

is  written,  Death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory.  O 
death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?  O  grave,  where  is  thy 
victory  ?" 

There  were  those  present  —  old  friends  of  his 
boyhood,  come  from  afar  to  give  the  dead  man 
the  last  greeting  of  affection — who  knew  how 
high  had  been  his  hopes  when  he  went  upon  the 
stage  ;  and  they  knew  also  how  hard  that  first 
year  had  been,  with  the  wearisome  drudgery  of 
his  apprenticeship,  with  the  incessant  travelling, 
with  ambition  baffled  by  lack  of  opportunity. 
Some  of  them  were  aware  how  the  second  year 
of  his  career  in  the  theatre  had  seen  a  change  in 
his  fortunes,  and  how  discouragement  had  given 
place  to  confidence.  There  had  been  dissensions 
in  the  company  to  which  he  belonged,  and  the  tra 
gedian  had  parted  with  the  actor  who  played  the 
second  parts.  Here  was  a  chance  for  the  young 
man,  and  he  proved  himself  worthy  of  the  good- 
fortune.  No  more  youthful  and  fiery  Laertes  had 
been  seen  for  years,  no  more  passionate  Macduff, 
no  more  artful  and  persuasive  Mark  Antony.  He 
had  the  gifts  of  nature — youth,  and  manly  beauty, 
and  the  histrionic  temperament ;  and  he  had  also 
the  artistic  intelligence  which  made  the  utmost 
out  of  his  endowment.  Before  the  end  of  his  sec 
ond  season  on  the  stage  he  was  recognized  as  the 
most  promising  actor  of  his  years.  He  had  played 
Mark  Antony  for  the  first  time  only  twelve  months 
before ;  and  now  he  lay  there  in  his  coffin,  and 
the  little  church  was  filled  with  the  actors  and 


8  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

actresses  of  New  York  who  bad  come  to  bid  him 
farewell. 

When  the  rector  had  finished  the  reading  of  the 
lesson  there  was  a  hush  throughout  the  church. 
A  faint  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  came  floating  down 
from  the  Avenue. 

A  few  straggling  rays  of  sunshine  filtered 
through  the  windows  on  the  right  side  of  the 
little  church,  and  stained  with  molten  colors  the 
wood-work  of  the  pews  on  the  1'eft.  There  was 
a  movement  among  the  members  of  the  vestured 
choir,  and  a  large  and  stately  woman  took  her 
stand  before  the  organ  ;  she  was  the  contralto  of 
a  great  opera  company,  and  it  was  with  skill  and 
power  and  feeling  that  she  sang  "  Rock  of  Ages." 

In  a  pew  between  the  organ  and  the  pulpit  sat 
a  slight,  graceful,  dark -eyed  and  dark -haired 
woman,  young  still  and  charming  always,  al 
though  the  freshness  had  faded  from  her  face. 
This  was  the  celebrated  actress  with  whom  the 
dead  man  had  been  acting  only  a  week  before. 
She  was  the  ideal  Juliet  —  so  the  theatre-goers 
thought  —  and  never  before  had  she  been  aided 
by  so  gallant  and  so  ardent  a  Romeo.  Nev 
er  before  had  the  tragedy  been  produced  with  so 
much  splendor,  and  with  dramatic  effect  so  cer 
tain  and  so  abundant.  Never  before  had  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet"  been  performed  for  a  hundred  and  fifty 
nights  without  interruption.  And  for  once  the 
critics  had  been  in  accord  with  the  public,  so  po 
tent  was  the  glamour  of  youth  and  beauty  and 


AND  THEN  SHE  STARED  STRAIGHT  BEFORE  HER 


IN   THE    LITTLE    CHUKCH    DOWN   THE    STREET       Q 

passion.  It  was  a  joy  to  all  discerning  lovers  of 
the  drama  to  see  characters  so  difficult  interpreted 
so  adequately.  Thus  it  was  that  the  tragedy  had 
been  played  for  five  months  to  overflowing  audi 
ences  ;  and  its  prosperity  had  been  cut  short  only 
by  the  death  of  the  fiery  wooer — of  the  Romeo 
who  lay  now  in  the  coffin  before  the  chancel, 
while  the  Juliet,  with  the  tears  gliding  down  her 
cheeks,  sat  there  by  the  side  of  the  middle-aged 
merchant  she  was  soon  to  marry.  The  young 
actor,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  whom  silly  school 
girls  would  watch  the  stage  door,  and  to  whom 
foolish  women  sent  baskets  of  flowers,  now  lay 
cold  in  death,  with  lilies  and  lilacs  in  a  heap  over 
his  silent  heart. 

When  the  final  notes  of  the  contralto's  rich  and 
noble  voice  had  died  away,  the  rector  went  on 
with  the  ritual  : 

"  Man,  that  is  born  of  a  woman,  hath  but  a  short 
time  to  live,  and  is  full  of  misery.  He  cometh  up, 
and  is  cut  down,  like  a  flower  ;  he  fleeth  as  it  were 
a  shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay." 

The  dead  man  had  been  the  last  of  his  line,  and 
there  were  no  near  kindred  at  the  funeral.  There 
was  no  mother  there,  no  sister,  no  wife.  Friends 
there  were,  but  none  of  his  blood,  none  who  bore 
his  name.  Yet  there  was  a  shiver  of  sympathy 
as  the  tiny  clods  of  clay  rattled  down  upon  the 
coffin  lid,  and  as  the  rector  said  "earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust." 

Then  the  service  drew  to  an  end  swiftly,  and 


10  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

the  pall-bearers  formed  in  order  once  again,  and 
the  coffin  was  lifted  and  carried  slowly  down  the 
aisle. 

As  the  sorrowful  procession  drew  near  to  the 
open  door  and  passed  before  the  pew  where  the 
tall  fair-haired  woman  stood,  stolid,  with  averted 
head,  and  a  stare  fixed  on  the  floor,  one  of  the 
bearers  stumbled,  but  recovered  himself  at  once. 
The  woman  had  raised  her  hand,  and  she  had 
checked  a  cry  of  warning  ;  but  the  coffin  was 
borne  before  her  steadily  ;  and  they  who  bore 
it  little  guessed  that  they  were  carrying  it  past 
the  dry-eyed  mother  of  the  dead  man's  unborn 
child. 

(1893.) 


,111  ©  i  ®  HI  ®  Bl  ®  B  ®  II  ®  III  ®  H9  ®  III  ®  III  ®  HI  ®  HI  © 


/     Owenty -ninth 

of  cfebzuazy 


'HE  Governor  of  the  State  and  his  sec 
retary  had  just  finished  their  lunch 
in  one  of  the  private  parlors  of  the 
hotel.  The  Governor  lighted  his  cigar 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as  the 
secretary  went  to  the  door  and  admitted  an  old 
man  who  had  been  patrolling  the  corridor  impa 
tiently. 

"  The  Governor  will  see  you  now,  Mr.  Baxter," 
said  the  secretary. 

The  old  man,  tall,  thin,  and  impetuous,  strode 
past  the  secretary  without  a  word  of  thanks,  and 
came  straight  to  where  the  Governor  was  sitting. 

"  At  last !"  he  cried — "  at  last  I've  got  a  chance 
to  talk  to  you  face  to  face.  If  you  only  knew 
how  I  have  longed  for  this,  you  would  have  let 
me  in  before." 

"Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Baxter,"  said  the  Governor, 
kindly. 

"  Thank  you,  but  I'd  rather  stand,"  replied  the 
old  man.  "In  fact,  I'd  rather  walk.  I  don't  seem 
to  be  able  to  sit  nor  to  stand  when  I  get  a-talk- 
ing  about  the  boy.  You  know  why  I  wanted 
to  see  you,  I  suppose?"  he  inquired,  suddenly, 
fixing  the  Governor  with  a  penetrating  stare. 


14  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

"  You  wish  to  urge  your  son's  pardon,  I  take 
it,"  the  Governor  answered ;  "  and  I  am  ready  to 
listen  to  you.  I  have  all  the  papers  here,"  and 
he  indicated  a  bundle  of  documents  at  his  elbow. 
"I  have  just  been  reading  them." 

"But  the  men  who  wrote  those  papers  didn't 
know  my  boy  as  I  know  him,  and  they  can't  tell 
you  about  him  as  I  can  tell  you.  He's  in  jail, 
and  he's  been  there  nearly  three  years,  and  he's 
twenty -four  years  old  to -day — for  to-day's  his 
birthday — but  he's  only  a  boy  for  all  that.  He 
isn't  a  man  yet,  to  be  judged  as  a  man,  and 
to  take  a  man's  punishment.  I  can't  tell  you 
that  he  didn't  shoot  the  fellow,  for  he  did ;  but 
he  did  it  in  his  anger,  and  he  was  sorely  tempted; 
and  what's  more,  he  did  it  in  self-defence.  Oh,  I 
know  that  wasn't  brought  out  on  the  trial,  but 
just  you  read  this,"  and  he  tore  open  his  coat 
and  pulled  out  a  package  of  papers ;  selecting 
one  of  them,  he  thrust  it  into  the  Governor's 
hands.  "  That's  from  the  man  who  sold  Bowles 
a  pistol  and  a  knife  on  the  28th  of  February,  the 
day  before  the  fight.  Then  you  read  this  too," 
and  he  picked  out  a  second  letter,  and  gave  that 
to  the  Governor  with  the  same  impatient  and  im 
perious  gesture.  "  That's  from  one  of  Bowles's 
friends,  the  fellow  who  was  with  him  just  before 
the  shot  was  fired.  He  kept  quiet  at  the  trial, 
and  said  as  little  as  he  could.  He  knew  that  I 
was  sick  abed,  and  so  he  held  his  peace.  But  I've 
been  at  him  ever  since  I  got  about  again,  and 


THE   TWENTY-NINTH    OF   FEBRUARY  15 

now  I've  pinned  him  down.  And  there's  the  re 
sult;  the  truth  must  prevail  in  the  end  always. 
There,  in  that  letter,  he  says  that  Bowles  had 
that  pistol  on  his  person  on  the  morning  of  the 
29th ;  and  that  if  it  wasn't  found  on  the  body,  it 
was  because  Bowles  dropped  it  as  he  fell.  The 
pistol  was  picked  up  that  night  under  a  plank  in 
the  sidewalk.  It  was  this  same  friend  of  Bowles's 
who  found  it  then,  and  he  said  nothing — the  cur! 
Even  at  the  trial  he  said  nothing  !  But  I  knew 
he  had  something  to  say,  and  at  last  I  made  him 
speak.  He's  telling  the  truth  now,  and  the  whole 
truth.  Read  the  letter  and  see  if  it  isn't.  He 
hated  my  boy;  and  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  him 
swing  ;  but  I  made  him  write  that  letter.  And 
if  that  isn't  enough,  I'll  put  him  on  the  stand, 
and  I'll  make  him  swear  to  every  word  of  it." 

The  Governor  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  began 
to  read  the  letters  thus  forcibly  placed  in  his 
hands. 

In  his  eagerness  to  be  heard,  the  old  man  could 
not  brook  even  this  delay,  and  as  the  Governor 
laid  down  the  first  letter,  he  broke  forth  again  : 
"To-day's  his  birthday,  the  first  he's  had  since 
the  shooting,  the  first  that  he's  ever  spent  away 
from  me.  He  was  born  on  the  29th  of  February, 
and  heAhas  a  birthday  only  once  in  four  years  ; 
and  it  was  just  four  years  ago  to-day  that  he  got 
into  this  scrape,  and  fired  the  shot  that  caused  us 
all  this  trouble.  He  was  twenty  years  old  that 
morning,  for  he  was  born  in  1864  ;  that  was  the 


16  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

year  when  General  Grant  was  getting  ready  to 
smash  Jeff  Davis  and  the  rebels  ;  that's  why  we 
called  him  Grant — out  of  gratitude  for  the  sav 
ing  of  the  country.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  a  pity 
he  hadn't  been  born  twenty  years  before,  so  that 
he  could  have  died  at  Cold  Harbor  like  a  man, 
without  ever  having  seen  the  inside  of  a  jail. 
But  it  was  to  be,  I  suppose.  Our  lives  are  laid 
out  for  us,  I  suppose.  Maybe  a  boy  born  on  the 
29th  of  February  is  different  from  other  boys  ;  I 
don't  know.  He  was  loved  more  than  most  boys  ; 
I  know  that  well  enough.  I  was  raised  on  Cape 
Cod,  and  my  father  never  gave  me  a  caress  ; 
though  I  guess  he  loved  me,  too,  in  his  way.  But 
I  moved  out  to  Lake  Erie  when  I  was  married, 
and  out  by  the  edge  of  the  lake  we  waited,  my 
wife  and  I,  for  a  man-child  to  be  born  to  us.  And 
we  waited  a  score  of  years  and  more  ;  and  when 
Grant  came  at  last,  he  was  our  only  child.  Both 
his  sisters  had  died  in  their  cradles.  So  he  was 
the  son  of  our  old  age.  Maybe  we  spoiled  him. 
Surely  we  spared  the  rod.  Why,  we  loved  him 
too  much  ever  to  say  a  hard  word  to  him.  In 
the  main  he  was  a  good  boy,  too— wild  at  times, 
and  skittish  —  but  always  loving  and  easily  led. 
His  mother  had  only  to  look,  and  he'd  jump  to 
serve  her.  So  we  let  him  do  as  he  pleased,  and 
most  generally  he  pleased  us.  Perhaps  I  gave 
him  too  much  rope  ;  I've  often  thought  so,  now 
I  see  how  near  he  came  to  hanging  himself.  But 
he  was  a  good  boy,  and  devoted  to  his  mother 


THE    TWENTY-NINTH    OF    FEBRUARY  17 

always.  And  she  loved  him — oh  !  how  she  loved 
him! — more  than  she  loved  her  husband,  I  know, 
fond  as  she  was' of  me." 

Here  the  old  man  paused  in  his  vehement 
speech,  and  turned  away  abruptly. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Baxter  with  you  here  in  the  city  ?" 
the  Governor  asked,  gently. 

"  Here — in  the  city  ?"  cried  the  old  man,  facing 
about  sharply.  "  She's  at  home — in  the  cemetery ! 
That's  where  she  is.  She  drooped  as  soon  as  ever 
he  was  arrested,  but  she  bore  up  till  the  trial  was 
over,  hoping  that  he  might  get  off  somehow,  not 
believing  that  her  boy  could  be  found  guilty. 
But  when  he  was  sent  off  to  Auburn  to  serve  fif 
teen  years  for  manslaughter,  why,  then  there 
wasn't  anything  left  for  her  to  live  for  any  long 
er,  with  all  the  joy  of  her  life  locked  up  in  a 
stone  cell.  So  she  took  to  her  bed,  and  she  died. 
She  faded  away;  she  had  lost  her  interest  in  life, 
and  so  she  gave  up.  Now  the  boy's  all  I  have, 
and  I  want  you  to  give  him  back  to  me.  That's 
what  I've  come  down  here  for.  That's  what  I've 
been  pursuing  you  for  these  six  months.  The  boy 
is  all  I  have.  I  want  to  see  him  back  at  the  old 
home  on  the  lake  before  I  die  —  and  I  can't  live 
much  longer,  I  guess.  I'm  seventy  now,  and  for 
all  I  look  hale  and  hearty,  there's  something  the 
matter  with  my  heart,  the  doctors  say,  and  I  may 
go  out  any  time,  like  a  candle  in  a  gale  of  wind. 
Well,  give  me  back  the  boy,  and  I'm  ready  to 
die.  Let  me  see  him  at  home  once  more,  a  free 

2 


18  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

man,  and  I'll  carry  the  good  news  to  the  old 
woman  whenever  the  call  conies,  and  gladly." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  his  impassioned 
speech  had  lost  a  little  of  its  fierce  fire. 

The  Governor  took  up  the  second  letter  and 
began  to  read  it.  The  movement  of  the  Gov 
ernor's  hand  as  he  raised  the  paper  aroused  the 
old  man  again. 

"If  the  District  Attorney  had  done  his  duty 
by  the  people  of  the  State  it  wouldn't  have  been 
left  for  me  to  wring  the  truth  out  of  that  coward 
whose  letter  you  are  reading.  Sometimes  I  half 
think  this  cur  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole 
thing.  It  was  he  who  introduced  Grant  to  the 
woman.  You  know  that  the  wedding  was  to 
have  taken  place  that  very  night  —  the  night  of 
the  shooting  ?  Yes,  it  all  came  out  on  the  trial. 
Grant  only  had  one  birthday  in  four  years,  as 
I've  been  telling  you,  and  so  he  persuaded  the 
girl  to  set  it  as  the  wedding-day  too.  And  he 
was  just  twenty — a  mere  boy.  It  was  no  wonder 
they  took  advantage  of  him.  If  you've  read  the 
report  you  can  see  how  she  deceived  him.  Even 
the  District  Attorney  admitted  that,  bitter  as  he 
was  against  the  boy.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  have 
been  in  court  at  the  trial !  If  I  had  only  been  in 
town  the  day  when  the  boy  discovered  the  truth, 
he  wouldn't  have  shot  that  villain,  for  I'd  have 
done  it  myself." 

"  Then  who  would  have  come  to  me  to  ask  for 
your  pardon  ?"  inquired  the  Governor,  smiling 


THE   TWENTY-NINTH    OF    FEBRUARY  19 

kindly.  "  I  have  read  these  letters,  but  they  con 
tain  nothing  that  is  new  to  me,  and — " 

"  Nothing  new  ?"  interrupted  the  old  man,  vio 
lently.  "That  letter  shows  that  Grant  fired  in 
self-defence,  since  the  fellow  had  a  pistol  in  his 
hand.  Isn't  that  something  new  ?" 

"  Not  to  me,  for  the  District  Attorney — against 
whom  you  seem  to  have  a  prejudice,  Mr.  Baxter 
— had  already  informed  me  of  this." 

"If  you've  been  listening  to  him,  I  suppose 
there  isn't  much  hope  of  my  getting  what  I'm 
after,"  the  old  man  returned,  hotly  ;  "  for  no  man 
ever  spoke  more  unfairly  against  another  than 
that  man  did  against  my  boy." 

"You  do  him  injustice,"  the  Governor  said, 
firmly.  "He  did  his  duty  at  the  trial  in  pressing 
for  sentence,  and  he  has  done  his  duty  now  in 
laying  before  me  this  newly  discovered  evidence. 
He  has  even  gone  further  :  he  has  urged  me  to 
accede  to  your  request  for  your  son's  pardon." 

"  The  District  Attorney  ?"  cried  the  old  man  in 
surprise. 

"  Yes,"  the  Governor  replied. 

"  Then  his  conscience  has  pricked  him  at  last." 

"And  it  is  chiefly  in  consequence  of  his  recom 
mendation  that  I  have  decided  to  pardon  your 
son,"  the  Governor  continued. 

"  I  don't  care  on  whose  urging  it  is,  so  long  as 
it's  done,"  the  old  man  rejoined.  "When  can 
the  boy  come  out  ?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"I  will  let  you  bear  the  pardon  to  him,"  said 


20  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

the  Governor,  and  lie  unfolded  one  of  the  papers 
which  lay  on  the  table  by  his  side  and  signed  it. 
"Here  it  is." 

The  old  man  seized  the  paper  with  a  convul 
sive  clutch.  His  knees  trembled  as  his  eyes  read 
the  pardon  swiftly. 

The  door  of  the  parlor  opened,  and  the  secre 
tary  returned. 

The  old  man  grasped  his  hat.  "  Do  you  know 
when  the  next  train  leaves  for  Auburn  ?"  he  in 
quired,  hastily. 

"  There's  one  art  four  o'clock,  I  think,"  the  sec 
retary  answered. 

"I  shall  be  in  time,"  said  the  old  man  ;  and 
then,  the  pardon  in  his  twitching  fingers,  he  left 
the  parlor  without  another  word.  He  passed 
quickly  through  the  corridors  of  the  hotel,  down 
the  stairs,  and  out  into  the  street.  When  he 
reached  the  pavement  he  stood  still  for  a  moment 
and  bared  his  head,  quite  unconscious  of  the  rain 
storm  which  had  broken  but  a  minute  before. 

A  small  boy  came  running  to  him  across  the 
street,  crying,  "Evening  papers  —  four  o'clock 
Gazette!" 

Seemingly  the  old  man  did  not  hear  him. 

"  Terrible  loss  of  life  !"  the  newsboy  shrilled 
out,  as  he  moved  away.  "Riot  at  Auburn  !  At 
tempted  escape  of  the  prisoners  !" 

Then  a  clutch  of  iron  was  fastened  on  the 
newsboy's  arm,  and  the  old  man  towered  above 
him,  asking  hoarsely:  "  What's  that  you  say  ?  A 


THE    TWENTY-NINTH    OP    FEBRUARY  21 

loss  of  life  in  the  prison  at  Auburn  ?  Give  me 
the  paper  !" 

He  seized  it.  On  the  first  page  was  a  despatch 
from  Auburn  stating  that  there  had  been  a  ris 
ing  of  the  convicts  at  the  State-prison,  which  the 
wardens  had  been  able  to  repress  after  it  had 
gained  headway.  The  prisoners  had  yielded  and 
gone  back  to  their  cells  only  after  the  wardens 
had  fired  on  them,  wounding  half  a  dozen  and 
killing  the  ringleader,  who  had  fought  desperate 
ly.  He  was  a  young  man  from  one  of  the  lake 
villages,  sentenced  to  fifteen  years  for  manslaugh 
ter  ;  his  name  was  Grant  Baxter. 

As  the  old  man  read  this,  the  paper  slipped 
from  his  fingers,  and  he  fell  on  the  sidewalk  dead, 
still  tightly  grasping  the  pardon. 

(1889.) 


Vi 


ew 


the  Spring  Exhibition  opened, 
March  had  thrown  off  its  lion's  skin, 
and  stood  revealed  as  a  lamb.  There 
was  no  tang  to  the  wind  that  swept 
the  swirling  dust  down  the  broad 
street ;  and  the  moonlight  which  silvered  the  Re 
nascence  front  of  the  building  had  no  longer  a 
wintry  chill.  Flitting  clouds  were  thickening,  and 
threatened  rain  ;  but  the  carriages,  rolling  up  to 
the  canvas  tunnel  which  had  been  extemporized 
across  the  sidewalk,  brought  many  a  pretty  wom 
an  who  had  risked  a  spring  bonnet.  Not  a  few 
of  the  ladies  who  had  been  bidden  to  the  Private 
View  were  in  evening  dress;  and  it  was  a  brill 
iant  throng  which  pressed  down  the  broad  corri 
dor,  past  the  dressing-rooms,  and  into  the  first 
gallery,  where  the  President  of  the  Society,  sur 
rounded  by  other  artists  of  renown,  stood  ready 
to  receive  them. 

Beyond  the  first  gallery,  and  up  half  a  dozen 
steps,  was  a  smaller  saloon,  with  a  square  room 
yet  smaller  to  its  right  and  to  its  left.  Still  far 
ther  beyond,  and  up  a  few  more  steps,  was  the 
main  gallery,  a  splendid  and  stately  hall,  lofty 
and  well  proportioned,  and  worthy  of  the  many 


26  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

fine  paintings  which  lined  its  walls  two  and 
three  deep.  In  the  place  of  honor,  facing  the 
entrance,  was  Mr.  Frederick  Olyphant's  startling 
picture,  "The  Question  of  the  Sphinx,"  which 
bore  on  its  simple  frame  the  bit  of  paper  declar 
ing  that  it  had  received  a  silver  medal  at  the 
Salon  of  the  summer  before.  In  a  corner  was 
another  painting  by  the  same  artist,  a  portrait  of 
his  friend  Mr.  Laurence  Laughton  ;  and  balancing 
this,  on  the  other  side  of  a  landscape  called  "  A 
Sunset  at  Onteora,"  was  a  portrait  of  Mr.  Rupert 
de  Ruyter,  the  poet,  by  a  young  artist  named 
Renwick  Brashleigh,  painted  vigorously  yet  sym 
pathetically,  and  quite  extinguishing  the  impres 
sionistic  "  Girl  in  a  Hammock,"  which  hung  next 
to  it.  Here  and  there  throughout  the  spacious 
room  there  were  statuettes  and  busts  ;  one  of  the 
latter  represented  Astroyd,  the  amusing  comedian. 
Landscapes  drenched  with  sunshine  hung  by  the 
side  of  wintry  marines  ;  and  delicate  studies  of 
still  life  set  off  purely  decorative  compositions 
painted  almost  in  monochrome. 

The  people  who  thronged  the  floor  were  well- 
nigh  as  various  as  the  paintings  which  covered 
the  walls.  There  were  artists  in  plenty,  men  of 
letters  and  men  about  town,  women  who  lived 
for  art  and  women  who  lived  for  society,  visitors 
of  both  sexes  who  came  to  see  the  exhibition,  and 
visitors  of  both  sexes  who  came  to  be  seen  them 
selves.  There  were  art-students  and  art-critics, 
picture-buyers  and  picture-dealers,  poets  and  nov- 


'^!&m.,i^  ,,. >:  . 


"PEOPLE  wno  THRONGED  THE  FLOOR  WERE  WELLNIGH  AS  VARI 
OUS  AS  THE  PAINTINGS" 


AT   A    PEIVATE    VIEW  27 

elists,  stock  -  brokers  and  clergymen.  Among 
them  were  Mr.  Robert  White,  of  the  Gotham 
Gazette,  and  Mr.  Harry  Brackett,  formerly  at 
tached  to  that  journal ;  Mr.  Rupert  de  Ruyter, 
who  could  not  be  kept  away  from  his  own  por 
trait  ;  Mr.  Delancey  Jones,  the  architect,  with  his 
pretty  wife  ;  Mr.  J.  Warren  Payn,  the  composer  ; 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin,  of  Washington  Square  ;  and 
Miss  Marlenspuyk,  an  old  maid,  who  seemed  to 
know  everybody  and  to  be  liked  by  everybody. 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  lingered  before  Olyphant's 
portrait  of  Laurence  Laughton,  whom  she  had 
known  for  years.  She  liked  the  picture  until  she 
overheard  two  young  art-students  discussing  it. 

"  It's  a  pity  Olyphant  nasn't  any  idea  of  color, 
isn't  it  ?"  observed  one. 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  other ;  "  and  the  head  is 
hopelessly  out  of  drawing." 

"The  man  has  a  paintable  face,  too,"  the  first 
rejoined.  "I'd  like  to  do  him  myself." 

"  Olyphant's  well  enough  for  composition,"  the 
second  returned,  "  but  when  it  comes  to  portraits, 
he  simply  isn't  in  it  with  Brashleigh.  Seen  his 
two  yet  ?" 

"  Whose  ?"  inquired  the  first  speaker. 

"  Brashleigh's,"  was  the  answer.  "  Biggest 
things  here.  And  as  different  as  they  make  'em. 
Best  is  a  Wall  Street  man  —  Poole,  I  think,  his 
name  is." 

"  I  know,"  the  first  interrupted.  "  Cyrus  Poole  ; 
he's  president  of  a  big  railroad  somewhere  out 


28  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

West.  Lots  of  money.  I  wonder  how  Brashleigh 
got  the  job  ?" 

"Guess  he  did  Rupert  de  Ruyter  for  nothing. 
You  know  De  Ruyter  wrote  him  up  in  one  of  the 
magazines." 

The  two  young  art -students  stood  before  the 
portrait  a  few  seconds  longer,  looking  at  it  in 
tently.  Then  they  moved  off,  the  first  speaker 
saying,  "  That  head's  out  of  drawing  too." 

It  gave  Miss  Marlenspuyk  something  of  a  shock 
to  learn  that  the  heads  of  two  of  her  friends  were 
out  of  drawing  ;  she  wondered  how  serious  the 
deformity  might  be  ;  she  felt  for  a  momerf.  al 
most  as  though  she  were  acquainted  with  two  of 
the  startlingly  abnormal  specimens  of  humanity 
who  are  to  be  seen  in  dime  museums.  As  these 
suggestions  came  to  her  one  after  the  other,  she 
smiled  gently. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  laughing  at  that 
picture,  Miss  Marlenspuyk,"  said  a  voice  at  her 
right.  "  It's  no  better  than  the  regulation  '  Sun 
set  on  the  Lake  of  Chromo,'  that  you  can  buy  on 
Liberty  Street  for  five  dollars,  with  a  frame  worth 
twice  the  money." 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  turned,  and  recognized  Mr. 
Robert  White.  She  held  out  her  hand  cordially. 

"  Is  your  wife  here  ?"  she  asked. 

"Harry  Brackett  is  explaining  the  pictures  to 
her,"  White  answered.  "He  doesn't  know  any 
thing  about  art,  but  he  is  just  as  amusing  as  if  he 
did." 


MR.  J.  WARREN   PAYN,  THE   COMPOSER'" 


AT   A    PRIVATE    VIEW  29 

"  I  like  Mr.  Brackett,"  the  old  maid  rejoined. 
"  He's  a  little — well,  a  little  common,  I  fear  ;  but 
then  he  is  so  quaint  and  so  individual  in  his  views. 
And  at  my  time  of  life  I  like  to  be  amused." 

"I  know  your  fondness  for  a  new  sensation," 
White  returned.  "  I  believe  you  wouldn't  object 
to  having  the  devil  take  you  in  to  dinner." 

"  Why  should  I  object  ?"  responded  Miss  Marlen- 
spuyk,  bravely.  "  The  devil  is  a  gentleman,  they 
say  ;  and  besides,  I  should  be  so  glad  to  get  the 
latest  news  of  lots  of  my  friends." 

"  Speaking  of  the  gentleman  who  is  not  as  black 
as  he  is  painted,"  said  White,  "  have  you  seen  the 
portrait  of  Cyrus  Poole  yet  ?  It  is  the  best  thing 
here.  I  didn't  know  Brashleigh  had  it  in  him  to 
do  anything  so  good." 

"  Where  is  it?"  asked  Miss  Marlenspuyk.  "  I've 
been  looking  at  this  Mr.  Brashleigh's  portrait  of 
Mr.  De  Ruyter,  and — " 

"Pretty  little  thing,  isn't  it?"  White  inter 
rupted.  "Perhaps  a  trifle  too  sentimental  and 
saccharine.  But  it  hits  off  the  poet  to  the  life." 

"And  life  is  just  what  I  don't  find  in  so  many 
of  these  portraits,"  the  lady  remarked.  "  Some 
of  them  look  as  though  the  artist  had  first  made 
a  wax  model  of  his  sitter  and  then  painted  that." 

They  moved  slowly  through  the  throng  towards 
the  other  end  of  the  gallery. 

"  Charley  Vaughn,  now,  has  another  trick,"  said 
White,  indicating  a  picture  before  them  with  a 
slight  gesture.  "  Since  he  has  been  to  Paris  and 


30  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

studied  under  Carolus  he  translates  all  his  sit 
ters  into  French,  and  then  puts  the  translation  on 
canvas." 

The  picture  White  had  drawn  attention  to  rep 
resented  a  lady  dressed  for  a  ball,  and  standing 
before  a  mirror  adjusting  a  feather  in  her  hair. 
It  was  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Delancey  Jones,  the  wife 
of  the  architect. 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  raised  her  glasses,  and  looked 
at  it  for  a  moment  critically.  Then  she  smiled. 
"  It  is  the  usual  thing,  now,  I  see,"  she  said — "  in 
timations  of  immorality." 

White  laughed,  as  they  resumed  their  march 
around  the  hall. 

"  If  you  say  that  of  Charley  Vaughn's  picture," 
he  commented,  "I  wonder  what  you  will  say  of 
Ren  wick  Brashleigh's.  Here  it  is." 

And  they  came  to  a  halt  before  the  painting 
which  had  the  place  of  honor  in  the  centre  of  the 
wall  on  that  side  of  the  gallery. 

"That  is  Cyrus  Poole,"  White  continued. 
"President  of  the  Niobrara  Central,  one  of  the 
rising  men  of  the  Street,  and  now  away  in  Europe 
on  his  honeymoon." 

The  picture  bore  the  number  13,  and  the  cata 
logue  declared  it  to  be  a  "Portrait  of  a  Gentle 
man."  It  was  a  large  canvas,  and  the  figure  was 
life  size.  It  represented  a  man  of  barely  forty 
years  of  age,  seated  at  his  desk  in  his  private 
office.  On  the  wall  beyond  him  hung  a  map  of 
the  Niobrara  Central  Railroad  with  its  branches. 


MR.  DELANCEY  JONES,  THE  ARCHITECT,  WITH  HIS  PRETTY  WIFE  " 


AT    A    PRIVATE    VIEW  31 

The  light  came  from  the  window  on  the  left, 
against  which  the  desk  was  placed.  The  pose  was 
that  of  a  man  who  had  been  interrupted  in  his 
work,  and  who  had  swung  around  in  his  chair  to 
talk  to  a  visitor.  He  was  a  man  to  be  picked  out 
of  a  crowd  as  unlike  other  men,  rather  spare, 
rather  below  medium  height,  rather  wiry  than 
muscular.  Beyond  all  question  he  was  energetic, 
untiring,  determined,  and  powerful.  The  way  he 
sat  indicated  the  consciousness  of  strength.  So 
did  his  expression,  although  there  was  no  trace  of 
conceit  to  be  detected  on  his  features.  His  hair 
was  dark  and  thick  and  straight,  with  scarce  a 
touch  of  gray.  He  had  a  sharp  nose  and  pierc 
ing  eyes,  while  his  lips  were  thin  and  his  jaw 
massive. 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  looked  at  the  picture  with 
interest.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  wonder  this 
has  made  a  hit.  There  is  something  striking 
about  it  —  something  novel.  It's  a  new  note; 
that's  what  it  is.  And  the  man  is  interesting 
too.  He  has  a  masterful  chin.  Not  a  man  to  be 
henpecked,  I  take  it.  And  he's  a  good  provider, 
too,  judging  by  the  eyes  and  the  mouth  ;  I  don't 
believe  that  his  wife  will  ever  have  to  turn  her 
best  black  silk.  There's  something  fascinating 
about  the  face,  but  I  don't  see  how — " 

She  interrupted  herself,  and  gazed  at  the  picture 
again. 

"  Is  it  a  good  likeness  ?"  she  asked  at  last,  with 
her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  portrait. 


32  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

"  It's  so  like  him  that  I  wouldn't  speak  to  it," 
White  answered. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  the  old  lady  responded. 
"  Yes,  if  the  man  really  looks  like  that,  nobody 
would  want  to  speak  to  him.  I  wouldn't  have 
this  artist — what's  his  name? — Mr.  Brashleigh? — 
I  wouldn't  have  him  paint  my  portrait  for  the 
world.  Why,  if  he  did,  and  my  friends  once  saw 
it,  there  isn't  one  of  them  who  would  ever  dare 
to  ask  me  to  dinner  again." 

White  smiled,  and  quickly  responded,  "As  I 
said  before,  you  know,  even  the  gentleman  you 
wanted  to  take  you  in  to  dinner  is  probably  not 
as  black  as  he  is  painted." 

"  But  I  wouldn't  want  that  man  to  take  me  in 
to  dinner,"  returned  Miss  Marlenspuyk,  promptly, 
indicating  the  portrait  with  a  wave  of  her  hand. 
"  Paint  is  all  very  well ;  besides,  it  is  only  on  the 
outside,  and  women  don't  mind  it ;  but  it  is  that 
man's  heart  that  is  black.  It  is  his  inner  man 
that  is  so  terrible.  He  fascinates  me — yes — but 
he  frightens  me  too.  Who  is  he  ?" 

"I  told  you,"  White  answered.  "He  is  Mr. 
Cyrus  Poole,  the  president  of  the  Niobrara  Cen 
tral  Railroad,  and  one  of  the  coming  men  in  the 
Street.  He  turned  up  in  Denver  ten  years  ago, 
and  when  he  had  learned  all  that  Denver  had  to 
teach  him  he  went  to  Chicago.  He  graduated 
from  the  Board  of  Trade  there,  and  then  came  to 
New  York  ;  he  has  been  here  two  years  now,  and 
already  he  has  made  himself  felt.  lie  has  engi- 


AT   A    PRIVATE    VIEW  33 

neered  two  or  three  of  the  biggest  things  yet  seen 
in  the  Street.  As  a  result  there  are  now  two 
opinions  about  him." 

"  If  this  portrait  is  true,"  said  the  old  maid,  "  I 
don't  see  how  there  can  be  more  than  one  opin 
ion  about  him." 

"There  were  three  at  first,"  White  rejoined. 
"At  first  they  thought  he  was  a  lamb  ;  now  they 
know  better.  But  they  are  still  in  doubt  whether 
he  is  square  or  not.  They  say  that  the  deal  by 
which  he  captured  the  stock  of  the  Niobrara  Cen 
tral  and  made  himself  president  had  this  little 
peculiarity,  that  if  it  hadn't  succeeded,  instead  of 
being  in  Europe  on  his  honeymoon,  Cyrus  Poole 
would  now  be  in  Sing  Sing.  Why,  if  half  they 
said  about  him  at  the  time  is  true  —  instead  of 
hanging  here  on  the  line,  he  ought  to  have  been 
hanged  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  But  then  I  don't 
believe  half  that  I  hear." 

"  I  could  believe  anything  of  a  man  who  looks 
like  that,"  Miss  Marlenspuyk  said.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  a  face  so  evil,  for  all  it  appears 
frank  and  almost  friendly." 

"But  I  have  told  you  only  one  side,"  White 
went  on.  "Poole  has  partisans  who  deny  all 
the  charges  against  him.  They  say  that  his  only 
crime  is  his  success.  They  declare  that  he  has 
got  into  trouble  more  than  once  trying  to  help 
friends  out.  While  his  enemies  call  him  unscru 
pulous  and  vindictive,  his  friends  say  that  he  is 
loyal  and  lucky." 


34  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  said  nothing  for  a  minute  or 
more.  She  was  studying  the  portrait  with  an  in 
terest  which  showed  no  sign  of  flagging.  Sud 
denly  she  looked  up  at  White  and  asked,  "Do 
you  suppose  he  knows  how  this  picture  affects 
us?" 

"Poole?"  queried  White.  "No,  I  imagine 
not.  He  is  a  better  judge  of  values  as  they  are 
understood  in  Wall  Street  than  as  they  are  inter 
preted  at  the  Art  Students'  League.  Besides, 
I've  heard  that  he  was  married  and  went  to  Eu 
rope  before  the  picture  was  quite  finished.  Brash- 
leigh  had  to  paint  in  the  background  afterwards." 

"  The  poor  girl  !"  said  Miss  Marlenspuyk. 
"  Who  was  she  ?" 

"  What  poor  girl  ?"  asked  the  man.  "  Oh,  you 
mean  the  new  Mrs.  Cyrus  Poole  ?" 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  old  lady. 

"  She  was  a  Miss  Cameron,"  White  answered  ; 
"  Eunice  Cameron,  I  think  her  name  was.  I  be 
lieve  that  she  is  a  cousin  of  Brashleigh's.  By-the- 
way,  I  suppose  that's  how  it  happened  he  was 
asked  to  paint  this  portrait.  He  is  one  of  the 
progressive  painters  a  Wall  Street  man  wouldn't 
be  Jikely  to  appreciate  off-hand.  But  it  couldn't 
have  been  given  to  a  better  man,  could  it  ?" 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  smiled. 

"  Well,"  said  White,  "  Brashleigh  has  a  mar 
vellous  insight  into  character  ;  you  can  see  that 
for  yourself.  Or  at  least  he  paints  portraits  as 
if  he  had  ;  it's  hard  to  tell  about  these  artists,  of 


" 


;SHE   OVERHEARD   TWO  ART   STUDENTS   DISCUSSING 


AT   A    PRIVATE    VIEW  35 

course,  and  it's  easy  to  credit  them  with  more 
than  they  have.  They  see  so  much  more  than 
they  understand  ;  they  have  the  gift,  you  know, 
but  they  can't  explain  ;  and  half  the  time  they 
don't  know  what  it  is  they  have  done." 

The  old  lady  looked  up  and  laughed  a  little. 

"  I  think  the  man  who  painted  that,"  she  said, 
"knew  what  he  was  about." 

"Yes,"  White  admitted,  "it  seems  as  though 
no  one  could  do  a  thing  with  the  astounding  vig 
or  of  this,  unconsciously.  But,  as  like  as  not, 
what  Brashleigh  thought  about  chiefly  was  his 
drawing  and  his  brush-work  and  his  values; 
probably  the  revelation  of  the  sitter's  soul  was 
an  accident.  He  did  it  because  he  couldn't  help 
it." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  for  once,"  Miss  Mar- 
lenspuyk  replied.  "I  find  in  this  portrait  such 
an  appreciation  of  the  possibilities  of  human  vil- 
lany.  Ob,  the  man  must  have  seen  it  before  he 
painted  it !" 

"It's  lucky  I'm  not  a  painter  by  trade,"  re 
turned  White,  "  or  I  should  feel  it  my  duty  to  an 
nihilate  you  on  the  spot  by  the  retort  that  laymen 
always  look  at  painting  from  the  literary  side." 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  did  not  respond  for  a  minute. 
She  was  looking  at  the  portrait  with  curious  in 
terest.  She  glanced  aside,  and  then  she  gazed  at 
it  again. 

"  Poor  girl !"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  gentle 
sigh. 


36  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

"  Meaning  Mrs.  Poole  ?"  White  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  the  old  lady  answered.  "  I'm  sorry  for 
her,  but  I  think  I  understand  how  she  had  to  give 
in.  I  can  feel  the  sinister  fascination  of  that  face 
myself." 

Above  the  babble  of  many  tongues  which  filled 
the  gallery  there  was  to  be  heard  a  rumble  of 
thunder,  and  then  the  sharp  patter  of  rain  on  the 
huge  skylight  above  them. 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Marlenspuyk,"  said  White, 
hastily,  "but  my  wife  is  always  a  little  nervous 
about  thunder  now.  I  must  look  her  up.  I'll 
send  you  Harry  Brackett." 

"  You  needn't  mind  about  me,"  she  answered, 
as  he  moved  away.  "I've  taken  care  of  myself 
for  a  good  many  years  now,  and  I  think  I'm  still 
equal  to  the  task." 

The  hall  was  densely  crowded  by  this  time,  and 
it  was  becoming  more  and  more  difficult  to  make 
one's  way  in  any  given  direction.  The  rain  fell 
heavily  on  the  roof,  and  dominated  the  rising 
murmur  of  the  throng,  and  even  the  shrill  voices 
now  and  again  heard  above  it. 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  drifted  aimlessly  with  the 
crowd,  looking  at  the  pictures  occasionally,  and 
listening  with  interest  to  the  comments  and  the 
fragmentary  criticisms  she  could  not  help  hearing 
on  all  sides  of  her.  She  found  herself  standing 
before  Mr.  Charles  Vaughn's  "Judgment  of 
Paris,"  when  she  was  accosted  by  Harry  Brackett. 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  Miss 


AT   A    PRIVATE    VIEW  37 

Marlenspuyk,"  he  began.  "  White  said  you  were 
here  or  hereabouts,  and  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
many  moons." 

They  chatted  for  a  few  minutes  about  their  last 
meeting,  and  the  friends  at  whose  house  they  had 
dined. 

Then  Harry  Brackett,  looking  up,  saw  the  huge 
painting  before  them. 

"  So  Charley  Vaughn's  '  Judgment  of  Paris '  is 
a  Salon  picture,  is  it  ?"  he  asked.  "  It  looks  to 
me  better  fitted  for  a  saloon.  It's  one  of  those 
nudes  that  Renwick  Brashleigh  says  are  offensive 
alike  to  the  artist,  the  moralist,  and  the  voluptu 
ary." 

Miss  Marlenspuyk  smiled ;  and  her  smile  was 
one  of  her  greatest  charms. 

"Do  you  know  Mr.  Brashleigh?"  she  asked. 

"  I've  known  him  ever  since  he  came  back  from 
Paris,"  Brackett  answered.  "  And  he's  a  painter, 
he  is.  He  isn't  one  of  those  young  dudes  who 
teach  society  girls  how  to  foreshorten  the  moon. 
You  don't  catch  him  going  round  to  afternoon 
teas  and  talking  about  the  Spontaneity  of  Art." 

"  Have  you  seen  his  portrait  of  this  Mr.  Poole  ?" 
she  inquired. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  replied,  "but  they  tell  me  it's  a 
dandy.  I've  never  met  Poole,  but  I  used  to  know 
his  wife.  She  was  Eunice  Camercfn,  and  she's  a 
cousin  of  Brashleigh's.  Come  to  think  of  it,  his 
first  hit  was  a  portrait  of  her  at  the  Academy 
three  years  ago." 


38  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

"  What  sort  of  a  girl  is  she  ?"  Miss  Marlenspuyk 
asked. 

"For  one  thing,  she's  a  good-looker,"  he  re 
sponded,  "  although  they  say  she's  gone  off  a  little 
lately  ;  I  haven't  seen  her  this  year.  But  when 
Brashleigh  introduced  me  to  her  she  was  a  mighty 
pretty  girl,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  pressure  of  the  crowd  had  carried  them 
along,  and  now  Miss  Marlenspuyk  found  herself 
once  more  in  front  of  the  "  Portrait  of  a  Gentle 
man,"  and  once  more  she  was  seized  by  the  power 
and  by  the  evil  which  the  artist  had  painted  on 
the  face  of  Cyrus  Poole. 

"  They  used  to  say,"  Harry  Brackett  went  on, 
not  looking  at  the  picture,  "  that  Brashleigh  was 
in  love  with  her.  I  think  somebody  or  other  once 
told  me  that  they' were  engaged." 

There  was  a  sudden  gleam  of  intelligence  in 
Miss  Marlenspuyk's  eyes. 

"But  of  course  there  wasn't  any  truth  in  it,"  he 
continued. 

The  smile  came  back  to  the  old  maid's  mouth 
as  she  gazed  steadily  at  the  portrait  before  her 
and  answered,  "  Of  course  not." 

(1893.) 


&  •  &  •  A  HI  ®  M  & 


the  city  the  spring  comes  earlier 
than  it  does  in  the  country,  and  the 
horse-chestnuts  in  the  sheltered  squares 
sometimes  break  into  blossom  a  fort 
night  before  their  brethren  in  the  open 
fields.  That  year  the  spring  came  earlier  than 
usual,  both  in  the  country  and  in  the  city,  for 
March,  going  out  like  a  lion,  made  an  April-fool 
of  the  following  month,  and  the  huge  banks  of 
snow  heaped  high  by  the  sidewalks  vanished  in 
three  or  four  days,  leaving  the  gutters  only  a  lit 
tle  thicker  with  mud  than  they  are  accustomed 
to  be.  Very  trying  to  the  convalescent  was  the 
uncertain  weather,  with  its  obvious  inability  to 
know  its'  own  mind,  with  its  dark  fog  one  morn 
ing  and  its  brisk  wind  in  the  afternoon,  with  its 
mid-day  as  bright  as  June  and  its  sudden  chill  de 
scending  before  nightfall. 

Yet  when  the  last  week  of  April  came,  and  the 
grass  in  the  little  square  around  the  corner  was 
green  again,  and  the  shrubs  were  beginning  to 
flower  out,  the  sick  man  also  felt  his  vigor  re 
turning.  His  strength  came  back  with  the  spring, 
and  restored  health  sent  fresh  blood  coursing 
through  his  veins  as  the  sap  was  rising  in  the 


42  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

branches  of  the  tree  before  his  window.  He  had 
had  a  hard  struggle,  he  knew,  although  he  did 
not  suspect  that  more  than  once  he  had  wrestled 
with  death  itself.  Now  his  appetite  had  awak 
ened  again,  and  he  had  more  force  to  withstand 
the  brooding  sadness  which  sought  to  master 
him. 

The  tree  before  his  window  was  but  a  shabby 
sycamore,  and  the  window  belonged  to  a  hall  bed 
room  in  a  shabby  boarding-house  down  a  side 
street.  The  young  man  himself  lay  back  in  the 
steamer  chair  lent  him  by  one  of  the  few  friends 
he  had  in  town,  and  his  overcoat  was  thrown  over 
his  knees.  His  hands,  shrunken  yet  sinewy,  lay 
crossed  upon  a  book  in  his  lap.  His  body  was 
wasted  by  sickness,  but  the  frame  was  well  knit 
and  solid.  His  face  was  still  white  and  thin,  al 
though  the  yellow  pallor  of  the  sick-bed  had  gone 
already.  His  scanty  boyish  beard  that  curled 
about  his  chin  had  not  been  trimmed  for  two 
months,  and  his  uncut  brown  hair  fell  thickly  on 
the  collar  of  his  coat.  His  dark  eyes  bore  the 
mark  of  recent  suffering,  but  they  revealed  also  a 
steadfast  soul,  strong  to  withstand  misfortune. 

His  room  was  on  the  north  side  of  the  street,  and 
the  morning  sun  was  reflected  into  his  window,  as 
he  lay  back  in  the  chair,  grateful  for  the  warmth. 
A  heavy  cart  lumbered  along  slowly  over  the 
worn  and  irregular  pavement ;  it  came  to  a  stand 
at  the  corner,  and  a  gang  of  workmen  swiftly 
emptied  it  of  the  steel  rails  it  contained,  drop- 


SPEING   IN    A    SIDE    STREET  43 

ping  them  on  the  sidewalk  one  by  one  with  a 
loud  clang  which  reverberated  harshly  far  down 
the  street.  From  the  little  knot  of  men  who 
were  relaying  the  horse-car  track  came  cries  of 
command,  and  then  a  rail  would  drop  into  posi 
tion,  and  be  spiked  swiftly  to  its  place.  Then 
the  laborers  would  draw  aside  while  an  arrested 
horse  -  car  urged  forward  again,  with  the  regular 
footfall  of  its  one  horse,  as  audible  above  the 
mighty  roar  of  the  metropolis  as  the  jingle  of 
the  little  bell  on  the  horse's  collar.  At  last  there 
came  from  over  the  house-tops  a  loud  whistle  of 
escaping  steam,  followed  shortly  by  a  dozen  sim 
ilar  signals,  proclaiming  the  mid-day  rest.  A  rail 
or  two  more  clanged  down  on  the  others,  and 
then  the  cart  rumbled  away.  The  workmen  re 
laying  the  track  had  already  seated  themselves 
on  the  curb  to  eat  their  dinner,  while  one  of  them 
had  gone  to  the  saloon  at  the  corner  for  a  large 
can  of  the  new  beer  advertised  in  the  window  by 
the  gaudy  lithograph  of  a  frisky  young  goat  bear 
ing  a  plump  young  goddess  on  his  back. 
.  The  invalid  was  glad  of  the  respite  from  the 
more  violent  noises  of  track  -  lay ers,  for  his  head 
was  not  yet  as  clear  as  it  might  be,  and  his  nerves 
were  strained  by  pain.  He  leaned  forward  and 
looked  down  at  the  street  below,  catching  the  eye 
of  a  young  man  wrho  was  bawling  "  Straw-b'rees  ! 
straw-b'rees  !"  at  the  top  of  an  unmelodious  voice. 
The  invalid  smiled,  for  he  knew  that  the  street 
venders  of  strawberries  were  an  infallible  sign  of 


44  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

spring — an  indication  of  its  arrival  as  indisputa 
ble  as  the  small  square  labels  announcing  that 
three  of  the  houses  opposite  to  him  were  "To 
Let."  The  first  of  May  was  at  hand.  He  won 
dered  whether  the  flower-market  in  Union  Square 
had  already  opened  ;  and  he  recalled  the  early 
mornings  of  the  preceding  spring,  when  the  girl 
he  loved,  the  girl  who  had  promised  to  marry 
him,  had  gone  with  him  to  Union  Square  to  pick 
out  young  roses  and  full-blown  geraniums  worthy 
to  bloom  in  the  windows  of  her  parlor  looking 
out  on  Central  Park. 

He  thought  of  her  often  that  morning,  and 
without  bitterness,  though  their  engagement  had 
been  broken  in  the  fall,  three  months  or  more  be 
fore  he  was  taken  sick.  He  had  not  seen  her  since 
Christmas,  and  he  found  himself  wondering  how 
she  would  look  that  afternoon,  and  whether  she 
was  happy.  His  revery  was  broken  by  the  jan 
gling  notes  of  an  ill-tuned  piano  in  the  next  house, 
separated  from  his  little  room  only  by  a  thin 
party -wall.  Some  one  was  trying  to  pick  out 
the  simple  tune  of  "  Wait  till  the  Clouds  roll 
by."  Seemingly  it  was  the  practice  hour  for  one 
of  the  children  next  door,  whose  playful  voices 
he  had  often  heard.  Seemingly  also  the  task  was 
unpleasant,  for  the  piano  and  the  tune  and  the 
hearer  suffered  from  the  ill-will  of  the  childish 
performer. 

A  sudden  hammering  of  a  street  rail  in  the 
street  below  notified  him  the  nooning  was  over, 


SEEMINGLY     IT    WAS    THE     PRACTICE-HOUR    FOR    ONE     OF    THE 
CHILDREN    NEXT   DOOR*' 


SPRING    IN    A    SIDE    STREET  45 

and  that  the  workmen  had  gone  back  to  their  la 
bors.  Somehow  he  had  failed  to  hear  the  stroke 
of  one  from  the  steeple  of  the  church  at  the  cor 
ner  of  the  Avenue,  a  short  block  away.  Now  he 
became  conscious  of  a  permeating  odor,  and  he 
knew  that  the  luncheon  hour  of  the  boarding- 
house  had  arrived.  He  had  waked  early,  and  his 
breakfast  had  been  very  light.  He  felt  ready  for 
food,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  servant  brought 
him  up  a  plate  of  cold  beef  and  a  saucer  of  prunes. 
His  appetite  was  excellent,  and  he  ate  with  relish 
and  enjoyment. 

When  he  had  made  an  end  of  his  unpretending 
meal,  he  leaned  back  again  in  his  chair.  A  turbu 
lent  wind  blew  the  dust  of  the  street  high  in  the 
air  and  set  swinging  the  budding  branches  of  the 
sycamore  before  the  window.  As  he  looked  at 
the  tender  green  of  the  young  leaves  dancing  be 
fore  him  in  the  sunlight  he  felt  the  spring-time 
stir  his  blood  ;  he  was  strong  again  with  the 
strength  of  youth  ;  he  was  able  to  cope  with  all 
morbid  fancies,  and  to  cast  away  all  repining. 
He  wished  himself  in  the  country  —  somewhere 
where  there  were  brooks  and  groves  and  grass — 
somewhere  where  there  were  quiet  and  rest  and 
surcease  of  noise — somewhere  where  there  were 
time  and  space  to  think  out  the  past  and  to  plan 
out  the  future  resolutely — somewhere  where  there 
were  not  two  hand-organs  at  opposite  ends  of  the 
block  vying  which  should  be  the  more  violent, 
one  playing  "  Annie  Laurie  "  and  the  other  "  An- 


46  VIGNETTES   OF   MANHATTAN 

nie  Rooney."  He  winced  as  the  struggle  between 
the  two  organs  attained  its  height,  while  the  child 
next  door  pounded  the  piano  more  viciously  than 
before.  Then  he  smiled. 

With  returning  health,  why  should  he  mind 
petty  annoyances  ?  In  a  week  or  so  he  would  be 
able  to  go  back  to  the  store  and  to  begin  again  to 
earn  his  own  living.  No  doubt  the  work  would 
be  hard  at  first,  but  hard  work  was  what  he  need 
ed  now.  For  the  sake  of  its  results  in  the  future, 
and  for  its  own  sake  also,  he  needed  severe  labor. 
Other  young  men  there  were  a  plenty  in  the  thick 
of  the  struggle,  but  he  knew  himself  as  stout  of 
heart  as  any  in  the  whole  city,  and  why  might  not 
fortune  favor  him  too  ?  With  money  and  power 
and  position  he  could  hold  his  own  in  New  York  ; 
and  perhaps  some  of  those  who  thought  little  of 
him  now  would  then  be  glad  to  know  him. 

While  he  lay  back  in  the  steamer  chair  in  his 
hall  room  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen  a  little, 
and  the  long  day  drew  nearer  to  its  end.  When 
next  he  roused  himself  the  hand-organs  had  both 
gone  away,  and  the  child  next  door  had  given  over 
her  practising,  and  the  street  was  quiet  again,  save 
for  the  high  notes  of  a  soprano  voice  singing  a 
florid  aria  by  an  open  window  in  the  Conservatory 
of  Music  in  the  next  block,  and  save  also  for  an 
unusual  rattle  of  vehicles  drawing  up  almost  in 
front  of  the  door  of  the  boarding-house.  With 
an  effort  he  raised  himself,  and  saw  a  line  of  car 
riages  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  moving  slowly 


v 


"HE    WISHED    HIMSELF    IN    THE    COUNTRY 


SPRING    IN    A    SIDE    STREET  47 

towards  the  corner.  A  swirling  sand-storm  sprang 
up  again  in  the  street  below,  and  a  simoom  of  dust 
almost  hid  from  him  the  faces  of  those  who  sat  in 
the  carriages — young  girls  dressed  in  light  colors, 
and  young  men  with  buttoned  frock-coats.  They 
were  chatting  easily  ;  now  and  again  a  gay  laugh 
rang  out.  > 

He  wondered  if  it  were  time  for  the  wedding. 
With  difficulty  he  twisted  himself  in  his  chair  and 
took  from  the  bureau  behind  him  an  envelope  con 
taining  the  wedding-cards.  The  ceremony  was 
fixed  for  three.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  he 
saw  that  it  lacked  but  a  few  minutes  of  that  hour. 
His  hand  trembled  a  little  as  he  put  the  watch 
back  in  his  pocket  ;  and  he  gazed  steadily  into 
space  until  the  bell  in  the  steeple  of  the  church 
at  the  corner  of  the  Avenue  struck  three  times. 
The  hour  appointed  for  the  wedding  had  arrived. 
There  were  still  carriages  driving  up  swiftly  to 
deposit  belated  guests. 

The  convalescent  young  man  in  the  little  hall 
bedroom  of  the  shabby  boarding-house  in  the 
side  street  was  not  yet  strong  enough  to  venture 
out  in  the  spring  sunshine  and  to  be  present  at 
the  ceremony.  But  as  he  lay  there  in  the  rickety 
steamer  chair  with  the  old  overcoat  across  his 
knees,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  evoking  the  scene 
in  the  church.  He  saw  the  middle-aged  groom 
standing  at  the  rail  awaiting  the  bride.  He  heard 
the  solemn  and  yet  joyous  strains  of  the  wedding- 
march.  He  saw  the  bride  pass  slowly  up  the  aisle 


48  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

on  the  arm  of  her  father,  with  the  lace  veil  scarce 
ly  lighter  or  fairer  than  her  own  filmy  hair.  He 
wondered  whether  she  would  be  pale,  and  whether 
her  conscience  would  reproach  her  as  she  stood  at 
the  altar.  He  heard  the  clergyman  ask  the  ques 
tions  and  pronounce  the  benediction.  He  saw  the 
new-made  wife  go  down  the  aisle  again  on  the 
arm  of  her  husband.  He  sighed  wearily,  and  lay 
back  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  closed,  as  though 
to  keep  out  the  unwelcome  vision.  He  did  not 
move  when  the  carriages  again  crowded  past  his 
door,  and  went  up  to  the  church  porch  one  after 
another  in  answer  to  hoarse  calls  from  conflicting 
voices. 

He  lay  there  for  a  long  while  motionless  and 
silent.  He  was  thinking  about  himself,  about  his 
hopes,  which  had  been  as  bright  as  the  sunshine  of 
spring,  about  his  bitter  disappointment.  He  was 
pondering  on  the  mysteries  of  the  universe,  and 
asking  himself  whether  he  could  be  of  any  use  to 
the  world — for  he  still  had  high  ambitions.  He 
was  wondering  what  might  be  the  value  of  any 
one  man's  labor  for  his  fellow-men,  and  he  thought 
harshly  of  the  order  of  things.  He  said  to  him 
self  that  we  all  slip  out  of  sight  when  we  die,  and 
the  waters  close  over  us,  for  the  best  of  us  are 
soon  forgotten,  and  so  are  the  worst,  since  it 
makes  little  difference  whether  the  coin  you  throw 
into  the  pool  is  gold  or  copper — the  rarer  metal 
does  not  make  the  more  ripples.  Then,  as  he  saw 
the  long  shafts  of  almost  level  sunshine  sifting 


"  DISTRACTED    BY    THE    CROSSING    SHOUTS   OF   LOUD-TOICED  MEN  " 


SPKING    IN    A    SIDE    STREET  49 

through  the  tiny  leaves  of  the  tree  before  his 
window,  he  took  heart  again  as  he  recalled  the 
great  things  accomplished  by  one  man.  He  gave 
over  his  mood  of  self-pity;  and  he  even  smiled  at 
the  unconscious  conceit  of  his  attitude  towards 
himself. 

He  was  recalled  from  his  long  revery  by  the 
thundering  of  a  heavy  fire-engine,  which  crashed 
its  way  down  the  street,  with  its  rattling  hose- 
reel  tearing  along  after  it.  In  the  stillness  that 
followed,  broken  only  by  the  warning  whistles 
of  the  engine  as  it  crossed  avenue  after  avenue 
farther  and  farther  east,  he  found  time  to  re 
member  that  every  man's  struggle  forward  helps 
along  the  advance  of  mankind  at  large  ;  the  hum 
ble  fireman  who  does  his  duty  and  dies  serves  the 
cause  of  humanity. 

The  swift  twilight  of  New  York  was  almost 
upon  him  when  he  was  next  distracted  from  his 
thoughts  by  the  crossing  shouts  of  loud-voiced 
men  bawling  forth  a  catchpenny  extra  of  a  third- 
rate  evening  paper.  The  cries  arose  from  both 
sides  of  the  street  at  once,  and  they  ceased  while 
the  fellows  sold  a  paper  here  and  there  to  the 
householders  whose  curiosity  called  them  to  the 
door-step. 

The  sky  was  elear,  and  a  single  star  shone  out 
sharply.  The  air  was  fresh,  and  yet  balmy.  The 
clanging  of  rails  had  ceased  an  hour  before,  and 
the  gang  of  men  who  were  spiking  the  iron  into 
place  had  dispersed  each  to  his  own  home.  The 


50  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

day  was  drawing  to  an  end.  Again  there  was  an 
odor  of  cooking  diffused  through  the  house,  herald 
ing  the  dinner-hour. 

But  the  young  man  who  lay  back  in  the  steamer 
chair  in  the  hall  bedroom  of  the  boarding-house 
was  unconscious  of  all  except  his  own  thoughts. 
Before  him  was  a  picture  of  a  train  of  cars  speed 
ing  along  moonlit  valleys,  and  casting  a  hurrying 
shadow.  In  this  train,  as  he  saw  it,  was  the  bride 
of  that  afternoon,  borne  away  by  the  side  of  her 
husband.  But  it  was  the  bride  he  saw,  and  not 
the  husband.  He  saw  her  pale  face  and  her  lu- 
minbus  eyes  and  her  ashen -gold  hair;  and  he 
wondered  whether  in  the  years  to  come  she  would 
be  as  happy  as  if  she  had  kept  her  promise  to 
marry  him. 

(1893.) 


^*w 

"THE  BRIDE  OF  THAT  AFTERNOON" 


,  III  ®  ffll  ®  i  ®  »  ©  ffl  ®  I  ®  19)  ®  HI  ®  til  ®  III  ®  III  ®  III  ®  HL 


Jjecozation-day   cJoevezu 


(HERE  had  been  a  late  spring,  set  off 
by  frequent  rain;  and  when  Decora 
tion  Day  dawned  there  was  a  fresh 
fairness  of  foliage,  as  though  Nature 
were  making  ready  her  garlands  for 
our  honored  dead.  When  at  length  the  march  be 
gan,  the  sunshine  sifted  through  the  timid  verd 
ure  of  the  trees  in  the  square,  and  fell  softly  on 
the  swaying  ranks  that  passed  beneath.  The 
golden  beams  glinted  from  the  slanting  bayonets, 
and  seemed  to  keep  time  with  the  valiant  old 
war -tunes  as  they  swelled  up  from  the  frequent 
bands.  There  was  a  contagion  of  military  ardor 
in  the  air,  and  even  the  small  boy  who  had 
climbed  up  into  the  safe  eyry  of  a  dismantled 
lamp-post  had  within  him  inarticulate  stirrings  of 
warlike  ambition.  In  the  pauses  of  the  music 
fifes  shrilled  out,  and  the  roll  and  rattle  of  drums 
covered  the  rhythmic  tramping  of  the  soldiers. 
I  lingered  for  a  while  near  the  noble  statue  of 
the  great  admiral,  who  stood  there  firm  on  his 
feet,  with  the  sea-breeze  blowing  back  the  skirt 
of  his  coat,  and  so  presented  by  the  art  of  the 
sculptor  that  the  motionless  bronze  seemed  more 
alive  than  most  of  the  ordinary  men  and  women 


54  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

who  clustered  about  its  base.  Here,  I  thought, 
was  the  fit  memorial  of  the  man  who  had  done 
his  duty  in  the  long  struggle,  to  the  heroes  of 
which  the  day  was  sacred;  and  I  was  glad  that 
the  marching  thousands  should  pass  in  review 
before  that  mute  image  of  the  best  and  bravest 
our  country  can  bring  forth.  At  that  moment 
a  detachment  of  sailors  swung  into  view,  and 
cheers  of  hearty  greeting  broke  forth  on  all 
sides. 

As  I  loitered,  musing,  a  battalion  of  our  little 
army  strode  by  us  in  turn,  with  soldierly  bearing, 
clad  in  no  gaudy  garb,  but  ready  for  their  bloody 
work ;  ready  with  cold  steel  to  give  a  cold  wel 
come  to  the  invading  foreigner,  ready  with  a 
prompt  volley  to  put  an  end  to  lawless  strife  at 
home.  After  an  interval  came  the  first  ranks 
of  the  citizen  soldiery,  trim  in  their  workmanlike 
uniforms,  with  stretchers,  with  ambulances,  with 
Gatling-guns.  One  after  another  advanced  the 
regiments  of  the  city  militia,  and  no  man  need 
doubt  that  they  would  be  as  swift  now  to  go  for 
ward  to  battle  as  were  their  former  fellow-mem 
bers  whose  deeds  gave  them  the  right  to  bear 
flags  emblazoned  with  more  than  one  battle  as 
hard  fought  as  Marathon  or  Philippi,  Fontenoy 
or  Waterloo.  As  they  swept  on  down  the  Avenue 
in  the  morning  sunlight,  with  the  strident  music 
veiled  now  and  again  by  ringing  cheers,  my 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  many  other  thousands 
I  had  seen  go  down  that  Avenue,  now  more  than 


A    DECORATION-DAY    REVERY  55 

a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  coining  from  the  pine 
forests  and  the  granite  hills  of  New  England,  and 
going  to  the  silent  swamps  and  the  dark  bayous 
of  the  South.  In  those  drear  days  of  doubt  I  had 
watched  the  ceaseless  tramp  of  the  troops  down 
that  Avenue,  a  thousand  at  a  time — young,  earn 
est,  ardent;  and  I  remembered  that  I  had  seen 
them  return  but  a  scant  hundred  or  two,  it  may 
be,  worn  and  ragged,  foot-sore  and  heart-sick,  but 
resolute  yet  and  full  of  grit.  Death,  like  the 
maddened  peasants  in  the  strife  of  the  Jacquerie, 
fights  with  a  scythe  ;  and  for  four  long  years 
Time  held  a  slow  glass  and  Death  mowed  a  broad 
swath.  There  is  many  a  house  now  where  an  old 
woman  cannot  hear  the  trivial  notes  of  "  Tramp, 
tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching,"  without  a 
sharp  pain  in  the  throat  and  a  sudden  vision  of 
the  prison-pen  at  Andersonville.  No  doubt  there 
is  many  another  woman  south  of  that  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line  which  was  washed  out  in  the  blood 
of  the  war  where  the  sentimental  strains  of  "  My 
Maryland"  have  an  equal  poignancy  and  an  equal 
tenderness.  Shiloh  and  Malvern  Hill  and  Get 
tysburg  are  names  made  sacred  forever  by  the 
deeds  done  there,  and  by  the  dead  who  lie  there 
side  by  side  in  a  common  grave,  where  the  gray 
cloth  and  the  blue  have  faded  into  dust  alike,  and 
there  is  now  naught  to  tell  them  apart.  It  is 
well  that  a  spring  day,  fresh  after  rain  and  fair 
with  blossoms,  should  help  to  keep  their  memory 
sweet. 


56  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

Down  the  Avenue  regiment  after  regiment  went 
on  briskly,  with  the  easy  pace  of  health  and  en 
joyment.  After  the  young  men  of  the  militia 
came  the  veterans,  with  flowers  for  their  fallen 
comrades.  Some  of  the  older  men  were  in  car 
riages,  with  here  and  there  a  crutch  across  the 
seat ;  but  for  the  most  part  they  walked,  keeping 
time,  no  doubt,  though  with  a  shorter  stride.  As 
a  handful  of  brave  men  filed  before  us,  bearing 
aloft  the  tattered  remnant  of  a  battle-flag,  I  raised 
my  hat  with  instinctive  reverence.  For  a  moment 
the  gesture  shielded  my  eyes  from  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  and  I  caught  sight  of  a  group  in  the  window 
of  a  house  opposite.  A  lady,  tall  and  stately, 
wearing  a  widow's  cap  above  her  gray  hair  as 
though  it  were  a  crown,  stood  in  the  centre  with 
her  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  two  young  men — 
her  sons,  beyond  all  question  —  stalwart  young 
fellows,  with  features  at  once  fine  and  strong, 
bearing  themselves  with  manly  grace.  I  looked, 
and  I  recognized.  When  I  lowered  my  eyes  again 
to  the  procession  I  saw  another  set  of  faces  that  I 
knew  by  sight.  In  a  carriage  sat  a  man  of  some 
fifty  years,  stout,  vulgar,  with  a  cigar  alight  in 
the  coarse  hand  which  rested  on  the  door  of  the 
vehicle.  He  had  a  shock  of  hair,  once  reddish 
and  now  grizzling  to  an  unclean  wrhite.  He  wore 
in  his  button-hole  the  button  of  the  G  ;and  Army 
of  the  Republic.  In  the  open  barouche  with  him 
were  three  youngish  men,  noisy  in  laughter — ap 
parently  professional  politicians  of  the  baser  sort. 


A    DECOKATION-DAY    KEVERY  57 

The  man  bowed  effusively,  with  a  broad  and 
unctuous  smile,  when  he  saw  a  friend  on  the  side 
walk  ;  and  the  crowd  about  me  recognized  him, 
and  called  him  by  name  one  to  another  ;  and  a 
little  knot  of  young  fellows  on  the  corner  raised 
a  cheer. 

I  knew  both  groups,  the  unclean  creature  in  the 
carriage  and  the  noble  lady  in  the  window  above 
him.  I  knew  that  both  were  survivals  of  the  war. 

As  the  procession  passed  on,  I  could  hear  an 
occasional  cheer  run  along  the  line  of  spectators 
when  one  or  another  recognized  the  politician.  I 
was  not  surprised,  for  the  man's  popularity  with 
a  portion  of  the  people  is  patent  to  all  of  us.  He 
was  a  soldier  who  had  never  fired  a  shot,  a  colo 
nel  who  had  never  seen  the  enemy.  His  tactical 
skill  had  been  shown  in  the  securing  of  a  detail 
for  himself  where  there  was  chance  of  profit  with 
no  risk  of  danger.  His  strategy  had  been  to  se 
cure  the  good  word  of  those  who  dispensed  the 
good  things  of  life. 

While  others  were  battling  for  the  country  he 
was  looking  out  for  himself.  When  the  war  was 
over  he  presented  his  claims  for  recognition,  and 
he  was  sent  as  consul  to  the  Orient.  In  due  time 
there  came  across  the  ocean  rumors  of  scandals, 
and  an  investigation  was  ordered ;  whereupon  he 
resigned,  and  the  matter  was  never  probed.  Then 
he  went  into  politics  :  he  was  ready  of  speech  and 
loud-mouthed  ;  he  flattered  the  mob,  believing 
that  in  politics  the  blarney-stone  is  the  stepping- 


58  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

stone  to  success.  He  never  paused  to  weigh  his 
words  when  he  assailed  an  opponent,  believing 
that  in  politics  billingsgate  is  the  gate  of  success. 
He  was  prompt  to  set  people  by  the  ears  that  he 
might  lead  them  by  the  nose  the  more  readily. 
As  though  to  make  up  for  his  delinquencies  dur 
ing  the  struggle,  he  was  now  untiring  in  his  abuse 
of  the  Southern  people,  and  his  denunciation  of 
them  was  always  violent  and  virulent.  In  every 
election  he  besought  his  fellow-citizens  to  vote  as 
they  had  shot.  He  was  unfailingly  bitter  in  his 
abuse  of  those  who  had  fought  for  the  cause  of 
the  South.  He  was,  in  short,  a  specimen  of  the 
scum  which  may  float  on  the  surface  whenever 
there  is  an  upheaval  of  the  deep. 

Brutal  in  political  debate  and  brazen  in  politi 
cal  chicanery,  he  was  a  fit  leader  for  the  band  of 
hirelings  he  had  organized  with  no  small  skill. 
His  position  was  not  unlike  that  of  the  condottieri 
of  the  foreign  mercenaries  in  the  mediaeval  quar 
rels  of  the  Italian  republics.  Like  them,  he  led  a 
compact  body,  prompt  to  obey  orders  so  long  as 
it  received  the  pay  and  had  hopes  of  the  plunder 
for  which  it  was  organized.  Although  he  be 
longed  nominally  to  one  of  the  two  great  parties 
which  contended  for  the  control  of  the  nation,  he 
was  always  ready  to  turn  his  forces  against  it  if 
his  pay  and  his  proportion  of  the  spoils  of  office 
failed  to  satisfy  himself  and  his  men-at-arms  ;  or 
even  in  revenge  for  a  slight,  and  in  hope  of  higher 
remuneration  from  the  other  side. 


A    DECORATION-DAY    KEVEKY  59 

For  me,  as  I  stood  on  the  corner  under  Farra- 
gut's  statue  and  watched  the  veterans  file  past, 
the  knowledge  of  this  man's  career,  and  the  sight 
of  his  presence  among  those  who  had  fought  a 
good  fight  for  a  high  motive,  seemed  to  tarnish 
the  sacred  occasion  and  to  stain  the  glory  of  the 
morning.  Again  I  looked  up  at  the  window 
where  I  had  seen  the  lady  with  her  two  sons. 
She  was  still  there,  leaning  forward  a  little,  as 
though  in  involuntary  excitement,  and  one  hand 
clinched  the  arm  of  the  soldierly  young  fellow  at 
her  right.  The  sight  of  those  three  refreshed  me, 
for  I  knew  who  they  were,  and  what  they  stood 
for  in  the  history  of  our  country— a  shining  ex 
ample  in  the  past  and  a  beacon  of  hope  for  the 
future.  The  widow's  cap  which  crowns  the  brow 
of  that  mother  brought  up  before  me  the  memory 
of  a  deed  as  noble  as  it  was  simple. 

A  fife-and-drum  corps  of  boys  dressed  as  sailors 
preceded  a  model  of  a  monitor  mounted  on  wheels 
and  artfully  adorned  with  flowers  and  wreaths. 
Behind  this  came  the  scanty  score  of  old  sailors 
who  had  formed  themselves  into  Post  Rodman  R. 
Hardy.  When  they  came  abreast  of  the  window 
where  the  lady  stood  with  her  two  sons,  they 
looked  up  and  cheered.  The  eyes  of  Captain 
Hardy's  widow  had  filled  with  tears  when  she 
caught  sight  of  his  old  comrades  ;  and  when  they 
cheered  her  and  her  boys  her  face  flushed  and 
the  arm  which  rested  on  her  son's  trembled.  She 
bowed,  the  two  young  men  raised  their  hats,  and 


GO  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

the  Post  passed  on  down  the  Avenue  to  perform 
their  sad  office  ;  though  they  might  not  deck  with 
flowers  the  grave  of  their  old  commander,  for  he 
lies  buried  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  great 
guns  were  firing  many  a  salute  with  shot  and  shell 
when  his  body  was  lowered  into  its  everlasting 
resting-place. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  a  soldier's  trade  is 
learning  how  to  kill  and  how  to  die,  and  that  how 
he  lives  is  little  matter.  Captain  Hardy  lived  like 
a  man,  like  a  gentleman,  like  a  Christian  ;  and  he 
died  like  a  hero.  He  came  of  a  generation  of 
sailors.  His  great-grandfather  had  sailed  with  the 
fleet  under  Amherst  when  Louisburg  was  taken 
in  1758.  His  grandfather  had  been  a  midship 
man  with  Paul  Jones  in  the  Boiihomme,  Richard. 
His  father  served  on  "  Old  Ironsides  "  when  the 
Constitution  captured  the  Guerriere.  He  him 
self  had  gone  to  sea  in  time  to  take  part  in  the 
siege  of  Vera  Cruz.  When  the  war  broke  out  he 
had  been  married  but  three  years.  He  was  on 
the  Cumberland  when  the  Merrimac  sank  her. 
While  the  new  monitors  were  building  he  had  a 
few  brief  weeks  with  his  wife  and  his  two  baby 
boys.  When  the  Onteora  was  finished  he  was  a 
captain,  and  he  was  appointed  to  take  com 
mand. 

And  there  was  no  monitor  which  did  better  ser 
vice  or  had  more  hard  work  than  the  Onteora. 
Just  before  the  grand  attack  on  Fort  Davis  he  ran 
under  the  guns  of  a  Confederate  battery  to  shell 


A    DECOKATION-DAY    EEVERY  61 

a  cruiser  which  had  retreated  up  the  river  behind 
the  strip  of  land  on  which  the  earthworks  stood. 
Regardless  of  the  fire  from  the  battery,  which 
bade  fair  to  hammer  his  ship  till  it  might  become 
unmanageable,  he  trained  his  guns  on  the  cruiser. 
He  had  no  more  than  got  the  range  when  a  fog 
settled  down  and  hid  the  combatants  from  each 
other.  The  battery  ceased  firing  or  aimed  wildly 
a  few  chance  shots.  The  monitor,  relying  on  the 
accuracy  of  its  gunners,  continued  to  send  shell 
after  shell  through  the  thick  wall  of  fog  to  the 
invisible  place  where  the  enemy's  ship  lay.  When 
the  fog  lifted,  the  cruiser  was  on  fire  ;  and  then 
the  monitor  fell  back  out  of  the  range  of  the  guns 
of  the  battery,  having  done  the  work  Captain 
Hardy  had  set  it  to  do. 

The  next  day  came  the  grand  assault  on  Fort 
Davis.  The  admiral  ordered  the  Onteora  to  fol 
low  the  flag-ship  in  the  attack.  The  channel  was 
defended  not  only  by  the  cannon  of  the  fort  itself 
and  of  its  supporting  earthworks  and  by  a  flotilla 
of  gunboats,  but  also  by  hidden  torpedoes,  the 
position  of  which  was  wholly  unknown  even  to 
the  pilots,  Union  men  of  the  port  who  had  volun 
teered  to  guide  our  vessels  through  the  tortuous 
windings  of  the  entrance.  The  iron  ship  was 
made  ready  for  battle  ;  its  deck  was  sunk  level 
with  the  surface  of  the  sea ;  and  nothing  pro 
jected  but  the  revolving  turret,  with  its  two  huge 
guns.  In  the  little  box  of  a  pilot-house  Captain 
Hardy  took  his  place  with  the  pilot.  The  admiral 


62  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

gave  the  signal  to  advance,  and  the  Onteora  fol 
lowed  in  the  wake  of  the  flag-ship. 

The  first  turning  of  the  channel  was  made  safe 
ly,  and  the  monitor  was  at  last  full  under  the 
fire  of  the  fort.  The  turret  revolved  slowly,  and 
both  guns  were  discharged  against  a  pert  gun 
boat  which  had  ventured  out  beyond  the  protec 
tion  of  the  fort.  The  second  shot  struck  the 
steam-chest  of  the  gunboat,  and  it  blew  up  and 
drifted  at  the  mercy  of  the  current.  Still  the  ad 
miral  advanced,  and  the  Onteora  followed.  Then 
a  sudden  shock  was  felt,  there  was  a  dull  roar, 
the  monitor  shivered  from  stem  to  stern,  and  be 
gan  to  settle.  A  torpedo  had  blown  a  hole  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  the  Onteora  was 
sinking.  Almost  at  the  same  time  a  shot  from 
Fort  Davis  struck  the  turret,  and  a  fragment 
smote  Captain  Hardy  and  tore  off  his  right  arm. 
In  the  scant  seconds  after  the  explosion  of  the 
torpedo,  before  the  shuddering  ship  lurched  down, 
half  a  score  of  men  escaped  from  the  turret  and 
flung  themselves  into  the  river.  The  captain  had 
barely  time  to  climb  into  the  open  air  when  his 
ship  went  down  beneath  him.  When  he  arose 
from  the  vortex  of  whirling  waters  his  unwound- 
ed  hand  grasped  a  chance  fragment  of  wood, 
which  served  to  sustain  him  despite  the  weakness 
from  his  open  wound.  He  found  himself  by  the 
side  of  the  pilot,  who  was  struggling  vainly  with 
the  waves,  his  strength  almost  spent. 

"  Can't  you  swim  ?"  asked  Captain  Hardy. 


A    DECOKATION-DAY    KEVERY  63 

"Only  a  little,"  answered  the  pilot;  "and  I  am 
almost  gone  now,  I  fear." 

"  Take  this  bit  of  wood,"  said  the  sailor. 

The  pilot  reached  out  his  arm  and  with  de 
spairing  fingers  gripped  the  broken  plank.  It 
was  too  small  to  support  two  men,  and  Captain 
Hardy  released  his  hold.  He  sought  to  sustain 
himself  with  one  hand,  and  for  a  little  he  succeed 
ed.  Then  his  strength  failed  him,  and  at  last  he 
went  under  almost  where  the  Onteora  had  sunk 
beneath  him.  The  battle  raged  above;  shell 
from  ship  after  ship  answered  shell  from  the  fort 
and  the  batteries;  another  ironclad  took  up  the 
work  of  the  Onteora;  brave  hearts  and  quick 
heads  were  at  work  on  sea  and  on  shore;  but 
Rodman  Hardy  was  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the 
river,  leaving  to  his  widow  and  his  sons  the 
heritage  of  a  manly  death. 

The  widow's  cap  which  the  young  wife  took 
that  night  she  has  never  discarded  to  this  day. 
His  sons  she  has  brought  up  to  follow  in  their 
father's  footsteps.  One  has  already  begun  to 
make  his  mark  in  the  navy,  having  been  gradu 
ated  from  Annapolis,  high  up  in  his  class.  The 
other  is  a  lawyer,  who  is  solving  for  himself  the 
problem  of  the  scholar  in  politics.  Although  not 
yet  thirty,  he  has  spent  two  terms  in  the  Legis 
lature  of  the  State,  where  he  has  done  yeoman 
service  for  the  city. 

The  parade  was  over  at  last — for  the  Rod 
man  R.  Hardy  Post  had  been  one  of  the  latest  in 


64  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

line  —  and  I  turned  away  across  the  square. 
The  sight  of  the  widow  with  her  two  sons  had 
cleansed  the  atmosphere  from  the  miasma  that 
trailed  behind  the  politician  as  he  rode  by  me  in 
his  vulgar  barouche.  The  memory  of  a  great 
deed  is  an  oasis  in  the  vista  of  life,  and  the  rec 
ollection  of  Captain  Hardy's  death  made  the  day 
seem  fairer.  The  sunshine  flooded  the  streets 
with  molten  gold.  A  pair  of  young  sparrows 
flitted  across  the  park  before  me  and  alighted  on 
a  bough  above  my  head.  From  over  the  house 
tops  came  floating  echoes  of  "John  Brown's 
Body"  and  "Marching  through  Georgia." 

(1890.) 


Gm    &eazch   of 
(oo  tor- 


novelist  stood  at  the  corner  of  Riv- 
ington  Street  and  the  Bowery,  trying 
to  find  fit  words  to  formulate  his  im 
pression  of  the  most  characteristic  of 
New  York  streets  as  it  appeared  on 
a  humid  morning  in  June.  The  elevated  trains 
clattered  past  over  his  head  and  he  gave  no  heed 
to  them,  so  intent  was  he  in  making  a  mental 
record  of  the  types  which  passed  before  him. 
Suddenly  he  was  almost  thrown  off  his  feet.  A 
young  man,  slipping  on  the  peel  of  a  banana  cast 
away  carelessly  upon  the  sidewalk,  had  stumbled 
heavily  against  him. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  the  young  man  as 
he  recovered  himself.  "I — why,  Mr.  De  Ruyter  !" 
he  exclaimed,  recognizing  the  author. 

"John  Suydam  !"  returned  Rupert  de  Ruyter, 
holding  out  his  hand  cordially.  "  Well,  this  is 
good-fortune  !  Do  you  know,  I  was  on  my  way 
to  the  University  Settlement  to  look  you  up." 

"You  would  have  found  me  there  in  ten  min 
utes,"  Suydam  answered.  "  This  is  my  week  to 
be  in  residence ;  in  fact,  I  think  I  shall  be  here 
for  the  summer  now.  You  see,  I  passed  my  A.M. 
examination  at  Columbia  last  week — " 


68  VIGNETTES    OP    MANHATTAN 

"  So  they  examine  you  for  it  now,  eh  ?"  the 
novelist  queried.  "In  my  time  we  got  it  almost 
for  the  asking — at  least,  I  did — and  that  was  only 
twenty  years  ago.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  it,  now  you've  got  it  ?  I  heard  you  were  to 
study  for  the  ministry." 

"  I  had  thought  of  the  Church,"  answered  Suy- 
dam.  He  was  a  tall,  spare  young  fellow,  with 
straight  brown  hair  and  a  resolute  chin.  "But  I 
don't  know  now  what  I  shall  do.  I  have  a  little 
money,  you  know — enough  to  live  on,  if  I  choose. 
So  I  may  stay  here  at  the  Settlement ;  the  work 
is  very  interesting." 

"No  doubt,"  the  novelist  responded,  readily; 
"you  must  see  many  curious  cases.  I  wish  I 
could  cut  loose  for  a  while,  and  spend  a  month 
with  you  here." 

"Why  don't  you?"  suggested  Suydam,  eagerly. 

"Oh,  I  have  too  much  on  hand,"  De  Ruyter 
replied.  "I've  got  to  read  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
poem  at  Harvard  next  week ;  and  besides,  I've 
promised  to  finish  a  series  of  New  York  stories 
for  the  Metropolis.  That  is  why  I  was  on  my 
way  to  find  you  this  morning.  I  want  you  to 
help  me." 

"  But  I  never  wrote  a  story  in  my  life,"  said 
the  young  man,  promptly. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  write  the  stories,"  De 
Ruyter  retorted.  "  Of  course  I  can  do  that  for 
myself.  But  I  thought  that  you  could  help  me 
to  a  little  local  color." 


RIVINGTON    STREET    AND   THE   BOWERY 


IN  SEARCH  OP  LOCAL  COLOR         69 

"Local  color?"  echoed  Suydam,  doubtfully. 

"Yes,"  the  novelist  went  on,  "local  color — 
that's  what  I  want — fresh  impressions." 

"I  cfon't  quite  see — "  the  young  man  began, 
hesitatingly. 

"  Oh,  I  can  explain  what  I  want,"  Rupert  de 
Ruy ter  interrupted.  "  You  see,  I'm  a  New-Yorker 
born,  as  you  are,  and  I've  lived  here  all  my  life, 
and  I  know  the  city  pretty  well — that  is,  I  know 
certain  aspects  of  it  thoroughly.  I  can  do  the 
Patriarchs,  or  a  Claremont  tea,  or  any  other  func 
tion  of  the  smart  set ;  I  know  the  way  men  talk 
in  clubs  ;  I've  studied  the  painters  and  the  liter 
ary  men  and  the  journalists  ;  I  can  describe  a 
first  night  at  the  theatre  or  a  panic  in  the 
Street ;  but  I've  pretty  nearly  exhausted  the 
people  I  know,  and  I  thought  I  would  come 
down  here  and  get  introduced  to  a  set  I  didn't 
know." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  take  you  to  the  Settlement," 
Suydam  responded,  "  and — " 

"It  isn't  the  Settlement  I  want,  thank  you," 
De  Ruyter  interrupted.  "  The  people  in  the  Set 
tlement  are  variants  of  types  I  know  already. 
The  people  I  want  to  meet  are  people  I  don't 
know  anything  about — the  very  poor  people,  the 
tenement-house  people,  the  people  who  work  for 
the  sweaters.  Do  you  know  any  of  those  ?" 

"Yes,"  Suydam  answered,  "I  know  many  of 
them.  But  they  are  not  half  so  picturesque  and 
so  pathetic  as  the  sensational  newspapers  make 


70  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

them  out.  Wouldn't  you  rather  go  and  see  the 
Chinese  quarter  ?" 

"  That  isn't  what  I  want,"  the  novelist  made 
answer.  "The  Chinese  quarter  is  barbarous  ;  it 
is  exotic  ;  it  is  extraneous  ;  it  is  a  mere  accidental 
excrescence  on  New  York.  But  the  tenement- 
house  people  have  come  to  stay  ;  they  are  an  in 
tegral  and  a  vital  part  of  the  city.  I  don't  care 
about  Chinatown,  and  I  do  care  about  Mulberry 
Bend.  Now,  Suydam,  you  know  Mulberry  Bend, 
don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  Suydam  returned.  "  I  know  Mulberry 
Bend." 

"Do  you  know  any  tenement -house  in  the 
Bend,  or  near  it,  which  is  characteristic — which 
is  typical  of  the  worst  that  the  Bend  has  to 
show?"  De  Ruyter  asked. 

"Yes,"  Suydam  responded  again.  "I  think  I 
could  find  a  tenement  of  that  kind." 

"  Then  take  me  there  now,  if  you  can  spare  me 
an  hour  or  two,"  said  the  novelist. 

"  I  can  put  off  my  errand  till  this  afternoon," 
the  young  man  answered.  "  I  think  I  can  show 
you  what  you  want.  Come  with  me." 

They  had  been  standing  where  they  had  met,  at 
the  corner  of  the  Bowery  and  Rivington  Street. 
Now,  under  John  Suydam's  guidance,  they  walked 
a  little  way  up  the  Bowery,  beneath  the  single 
track  of  the  elevated  railroad.  Then  they  turned 
into  a  side  street,  and  pushed  their  way  west 
ward. 


IN   MULBERRY   BEND 


IN    SEARCH    OF    LOCAL    COLOR  71 

Whenever  they  came  to  a  crossing  De  Ruyter 
remarked  that  three  of  the  corners  always,  and 
four  of  them  sometimes,  were  saloons.  The  broad 
gilt  signs  over  the  open  doors  of  these  bar-rooms 
bore  names  either  German  or  Irish,  until  they 
came  to  a  corner  where  one  of  the  saloons  called 
itself  the  Caffe  Cristoforo  Colombo.  A  wooden 
stand,  down  the  side  street,  and  taking  up  a  third 
of  the  width  of  the  walk,  had  a  sign  announcing 
ice-cold  soda-water  at  two  cents  a  glass  with  fruit 
syrups  ;  with  chocolate  and  cream,  the  price  was 
three  cents.  Right  on  the  corner  of  the  curb 
stood  a  large  wash-tub  half  filled  with  water, 
in  which  soaked  doubtful  young  cabbages  and 
sprouts  ;  its  guardian  was  a  thin  slip  of  a  girl 
with  a  red  handkerchief  knotted  over  her  head. 

At  this  corner  Suydam  turned  out  of  the  side 
street,  and  went  down  a  street  no  wider  perhaps, 
but  extending  north  and  south  in  a  devious  and 
hesitating  way  not  common  in  the  streets  of  New 
York.  The  sidewalks  of  this  sinuous  street  were 
inconveniently  narrow  for  its  crowded  popula 
tion,  and  they  were  made  still  narrower  by  tol 
erated  encroachments  of  one  kind  or  another. 
Here,  for  instance,  from  the  side  of  a  small  shop 
projected  a  stand  on  which  unshelled  pease  wilted 
under  the  strong  rays  of  the  young  June  sun. 
There,  for  example,  were  steps  down  to  the  low 
basement,  and  in  a  corner  of  the  hollow  at  the 
foot  of  these  stairs  there  might  be  a  pail  with 
dingy  ice  packed  about  a  can  of  alleged  ice- 


72  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

cream,  or  else  a  board  bore  half  a  dozen  tough 
brown  loaves,  also  proffered  for  sale  to  the  chance 
customer.  Here  and  there,  again,  the  dwellers  in 
the  tall  tenements  had  brought  chairs  to  the  com 
mon  door,  and  were  seated,  comfortably  convers 
ing  with  their  neighbors,  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  they  thus  blocked  the  sidewalk,  and  com 
pelled  the  passer-by  to  go  out  into  the  street  it 
self. 

And  the  street  was  as  densely  packed  as  the 
sidewalk.  In  front  of  Suydain  and  De  Ruyter  as 
they  picked  their  way  along  was  a  swarthy  young 
fellow  with  his  flannel  shirt  open  at  the  throat 
and  rolled  up  on  his  tawny  arms;  he  was  pushing 
before  him  a  hand-cart  heaped  with  gayly  colored 
calicoes.  Other  hand-carts  there  were,  from  which 
other  men,  young  and  old,  were  vending  other 
wares — fruit  more  often  than  not;  fruit  of  a  most 
untempting  frowziness.  Now  and  then  a  huge 
wagon  came  lumbering  through  the  street,  heaped 
high  with  lofty  cases  of  furniture  from  a  rum 
bling  and  clattering  factory  near  the  corner.  And 
before  the  heavy  horses  of  this  wagon  the  chil 
dren  scattered,  waiting  till  the  last  moment  of 
possible  escape.  There  were  countless  children, 
and  they  were  forever  swarming  out  of  the  houses 
and  up  from  the  cellars  and  over  the  sidewalks 
and  up  and  down  the  street.  They  were  of  all 
ages,  from  the  babe  in  the  arms  of  its  dumpy, 
thick-set  mother  to  the  sweet-faced  and  dark-eyed 
girl  of  ten  or  twelve  really,  though  she  might 


V 


A 


MULHKRRY    STRKKT    FRUIT-VENDERS 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOCAL  COLOR         73 

seem  a  precocious  fourteen.  They  ran  wild  in 
the  street;  they  played  about  the  knees  of  their 
mothers,  who  sat  gossiping  in  the  doorways;  they 
hung  over  the  railing  of  the  fire-escapes,  which 
gridironed  the  front  of  every  tall  house. 

Everywhere  had  the  Italians  treated  the  bal 
cony  of  the  fire-escape  as  an  out-door  room  added 
to  their  scant  accommodation.  They  adorned  it 
with  flowers  growing  in  broken  wooden  boxes; 
they  used  its  railings  to  dry  their  parti-colored 
flannel  shirts;  they  sat  out  on  it  as  though  it  were 
the  loggia  of  a  villa  in  their  native  land. 

Everywhere,  also,  were  noises  and  smells.  The 
roar  of  the  metropolis  was  here  sharpened  by 
the  rattle  of -near  machinery  heard  through  open 
windows,  and  by  the  incessant  clatter  and  shrill 
cries  of  the  multitude  in  the  street.  The  rancid 
odor  of  ill-kept  kitchens  mingled  with  the  miti 
gated  effluvium  of  decaying  fruits  and  vegetables. 

But  over  and  beyond  the  noises  and  the  smells 
and  the  bustling  business  of  the  throng,  Rupert 
de  Ruyter  felt  as  though  he  were  receiving  an  im 
pression  of  life  itself.  It  was  as  if  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  mighty  movement  of  existence, 
incessant  and  inevitable.  What  he  saw  did  not 
strike  him  as  pitiful ;  it  did  not  weigh  him  down 
with  despondency.  The  spectacle  before  him 
was  not  beautiful;  it  was  not  even  picturesque; 
but  never  for  a  moment,  even,  did  it  strike  him  as 
pathetic.  Interesting  it  was,  of  a  certainty — un 
failingly  interesting. 


74  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

"I  haven't  found  anything  so  Italian  as  this 
for  years,"  he  said  to  his  guide,  as  they  picked 
their  way  through  a  tangle  of  babies  sprawling 
out  of  a  doorway.  "  I  remember  seeing  nothing 
more  Italian  in  my  first  walk  in  Italy  —  up  the 
hill-side  at  Menaggio,  after  we  landed  from  the 
boat  to  Como.  Some  of  the  faces  here  are  of  a 
purer  Greek  type  than  any  you  meet  in  northern 
Italy.  Did  you  see  that  young  mother  we  passed 
just  now  ?" 

"The  one  nursing  the  infant?"  Suydam  re 
turned. 

"  Yes,"  De  Ruyter  went  on.  "  She  had  the  oval 
face  and  the  olive  complexion  the  Greeks  left  be 
hind  them  in  Sicily.  She  was  not  pretty,  if  you 
like,  but  she  had  the  calm  beauty  of  a  race  of 
sculptors.  Her  profile  might  have  come  off  a 
Syracusan  coin.  And  to  see  such  a  face  here,  in 
the  city  that  was  New  Amsterdam  and  is  New 
York !" 

"  We  haven't  time  down  here  to  think  of  Syra 
cuse  and  New  Amsterdam,"  said  Suydam;  "we 
are  too  busy  thinking  about  New  York.  And  if 
we  ever  do  think  of  Sicily  it  is  only  to  remember 
that  the  Sicilians  we  have  here  are  the  hottest 
tempered  of  all  the  Italians,  the  most  revengeful 
and  vindictive." 

"If  I  didn't  know,"  the  novelist  remarked, 
"  that  the  Italians  had  developed  their  mercantile 
faculty  at  the  expense  of  all  their  artistic  impulses, 
I  should  wonder  how  it  was  that  scions  of  the 


I 


ITALIAN    MOTHER   AND    CHILD 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOCAL  COLOK         75 

race  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
and  Raffael  of  Urbino  could  now  be  willing  to 
live  in  a  house  as  hideous  as  that!"  and  with  a 
sweep  of  his  hand  he  indicated  a  lofty  double 
tenement,  made  uglier  by  much  misplaced  orna 
ment.  "It  isn't  even  picturesque  by  decay.  In 
fact,  this  whole  region  is  in  better  repair  than  I 
had  expected." 

"Look  at  the  house  behind  you,"  answered  his 
companion. 

The  house  behind  them  was  one  of  the  oldest 
tenements  in  the  street.  The  balconies  of  its  fire- 
escape  were  as  cluttered  as  those  of  the  neighbor 
ing  dwellings;  and  every  window  gave  signs  that 
the  room  behind  was  inhabited.  Yet  the  building, 
as  a  whole,  seemed  neglected. 

"This  house  does  seem  out  at  elbows  and  di 
shevelled,"  De  Ruyter  admitted.  "  It  looks  like  a 
tramp,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"It  does  not  look  very  clean,"  said  Suydam. 
"And  the  back  building  is  dirtier  yet.  That's 
where  we  are  going,  if  you  like." 

"Well,"  De  Ruyter  answered,  "if  there  is 
local  color  to  be  found  anywhere  round  here,  I 
guess  we  shall  find  a  fair  share  of  it  in  this  place." 

"This  way,  then,"  Suydam  said,  plunging  into 
a  covered  alleyway,  which  extended  under  the 
house,  and  led  into  a  small  yard  paved  with  un 
even  flag-stones,  and  shut  in  on  all  four  sides  by 
the  surrounding  buildings.  Even  on  that  sunny 
pure  morning  there  was  a  dank  chill  in  the  air, 


76  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

and  there  were  patches  of  moisture  here  and  there 
on  the  pavement. 

"The  new  building  laws  don't  allow  back 
buildings  of  this  sort,"  Suydam  explained.  "But 
there  are  thousands  of  them  in  the  city,  put  up 
before  the  new  laws  went  into  effect.  Perhaps 
we  had  better  try  the  basement  first." 

In  one  corner  of  the  yard  half  a  dozen  steps 
led  down  into  the  basement  of  the  back  build 
ing.  Followed  by  the  novelist,  the  young  man 
from  the  University  Settlement  went  down  these 
steps  and  into  the  cellarlike  room,  which  occupied 
about  half  the  space  under  the  back  building. 

The  air  in  this  room  was  so  foul  that  De  Ruy- 
ter  held  his  breath  for  a  moment.  The  room 
was  not  more  than  twelve  feet  square  ;  its  walls 
were  unplastered,  showing  the  coarse  foundation- 
stones  ;  its  floor  was  of  earth,  trodden  to  hard 
ness,  except  where  the  drippings  from  the  beer- 
cans  had  moistened  it ;  the  beams  of  the  floor 
above  seemed  rotten.  In  the  damp  heat  of  this 
room  ten  or  a  dozen  men  and  boys  were  seated 
on  old  chairs  and  on  broken  boxes,  smoking,  play 
ing  cards  by  the  light  of  a  single  foul  and  flaring 
kerosene-lamp,  and  drinking  the  dregs  of  beer- 
kegs  collected  in  old  cans. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  cellar  looked  up  as  Suy 
dam  and  De  Ruytcr  entered,  and  then  they  re 
sumed  their  previous  occupations,  with  no  further 
attention  to  the  intruders. 

The  man  nearest  to  the  door  was  a  powerfully 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOCAL  COLOR         77 

built  fellow  of  fifty,  with  gray  hair  cropped  close 
to  his  head.  He  was  playing  cards.  He  had  a 
knife  thrust  in  his  leathern  belt. 

"  Good-morning,  Giacomo,"  said  Suydam  to  this 
grizzled  brute.  "I  haven't  heard  of  you  for  a 
long  while  now.  When  did  you  get  off  the 
Island?" 

"  Las'  week,"  was  the  gruff  answer. 

"And  where  is  your  wife  now?"  the  young 
man  asked. 

"  She  work,"  answered  Giacomo. 

Suydam  did  not  pursue  the  conversation  fur 
ther.  Judging  that  the  novelist  had  seen  enough, 
he  turned  and  went  up  the  rickety  steps  again, 
followed  by  his  friend. 

"  Ouf !"  said  De  Ruyter,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
as  they  stood  again  in  the  cramped  yard.  "I 
don't  see  how  they  can  breathe  that  air  and  live." 

"They  don't  live,"  answered  Suydam  —  "at 
least,  the  weaker  are  soon  pushed  to  the  wall  and 
die,  leaving  only  the  tougher  specimens  you  saw. 
Now  we  will  go  up-stairs,  if  you  like." 

"  I'm  ready,"  De  Ruyter  responded.  "  This  is 
exactly  what  I  came  to  see." 

In  the  centre  of  the  back  building  there  was 
an  entry.  The  door  was  off  its  hinges.  Just  in 
side  the  passage  were  the  stairs,  with  the  railing 
broken,  and  many  of  the  steps  dangerously  de 
cayed.  There  was  little  light  as  they  went  up, 
and  a  rank  odor  of  decaying  fish  accompanied 
them. 


78  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  there  was  a  door  on 
either  hand.  Suydam  knocked  at  them  in  turn, 
and  then  tried  to  open  them  ;  but  they  were 
locked,  and  there  was  no  response  to  the  repeated 
hammerings. 

"I  say,"  remarked  the  novelist,  as  they  went 
up  to  the  floor  above,  "do  these  people  like  to 
have  us  intrude  on  them  in  this  way  ?" 

"Some  don't,"  Suydam  answered,  promptly, 
"  and  of  course  I  try  never  to  intrude.  But  most 
of  them  don't  mind.  Most  of  them  have  no  sense 
of  home.  Most  of  them  don't  know  what  privacy 
means.  How  could  they  ?" 

"True,"  echoed  the  novelist.  "How  could 
they?" 

"  Here  is  an  exemplification  of  what  I  mean," 
said  the  young  man  from  the  Settlement  as  they 
came  to  the  next  landing. 

The  door  leading  into  the  room  on  the  right 
was  open.  The  room  was  perhaps  ten  feet  square  ; 
it  contained  two  beds.  On  one  of  the  beds  a 
man  sat  cross-legged  sewing  ;  he  glanced  up  for 
a  moment  only  as  the  two  visitors  darkened  the 
doorway,  and  then  he  went  on  with  his  work. 
On  the  other  bed  were  two  little  children,  half 
naked  and  asleep  ;  one  was  a  boy  of  three,  the 
other  a  girl  of  nearly  two.  On  the  edge  of  this 
bed  sat  a  tall  boy  of  seventeen,  also  sewing. 
In  the  narrow  alley  between  the  two  beds  were 
two  sewing-machines,  one  tended  by  a  girl  of  fif 
teen  or  sixteen  perhaps,  a  thin,  stunted  child,  with 


IN    SEAKCII    OF    LOCAL    COLOR  79 

bent  shoulders.  The  other  machine  was  operated 
by  the  mother  of  these  children,  a  large-framed 
woman  of  forty,  with  the  noble  head  so  often  seen 
among  the  Trasteverines. 

She  knew  Suydam,  and  she  smiled. 

"  Good-mornin',"  she  said. 

"  Good-morning,"  responded  Suydam.  "  I  am 
showing  a  friend  over  the  building.  You  seem  a 
little  crowded  here." 

"Not  crowd'  now,"  she  answered.  "  Only  one 
boarder  now,"  and  she  indicated  the  man  seated 
cross-legged  on  the  bed.  "Last  week  two." 

"Where  is  your  husband?"  asked  the  young 
man. 

"  Oh,  he  got  another  girl,"  she  replied,  with  a 
vague  gesture,  apparently  of  disapproval. 

Suydam  and  De  Ruyter  went  a  floor  higher, 
glancing  into  the  rooms  which  were  open.  Suy 
dam  knew  most  of  the  inhabitants,  and  they 
seemed  glad  to  see  him.  Evidently  they  looked 
on  him  as  a  friend. 

On  the  top  floor,  under  the  steps  which  led  to 
the  roof,  was  a  den  scarce  six  feet  by  eight. 
Small  as  it  was,  this  room  had  better  furniture 
than  most  of  those  De  Ruyter  had  seen;  it  con 
tained  evidences  of  a  desire  to  make  a  home. 
There  were  violent  chromos  pinned  to  the  wall. 
The  bed  had  a  parti-colored  coverlet.  The  sole 
inhabitant  was  a  tall,  dark  Italian  with  fiery  eyes. 
He  was  cooking  macaroni  with  ropy  cheese  over 
an  oil-lamp.  His  door  was  ajar  only. 


80  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

"Good -morning,  Pietro,"  said  Suydam,  cheer- 
fully. 

Pietro  obeyed  his  first  impulse,  and  shut  the 
door  swiftly.  Then  he  changed  his  mind,  for  he 
opened  the  door  and  peered  out  suspiciously. 
Recognizing  Suydam,  he  was  about  to  throw  it 
wide,  when  he  caught  sight  of  De  Ruyter.  There 
was  a  moment  of  hesitancy,  and  then  he  took  his 
hand  from  the  knob  of  the  door  and  went  on  with 
his  cooking. 

"I  am  showing  my  friend  over  the  building," 
explained  Suydam. 

The  Italian  said  nothing.  Apparently  his  cook 
ing  absorbed  all  his  attention.  But  he  gave  De 
Ruyter  a  searching  glance. 

Suydam  turned  to  the  novelist.  "  This  is  Pie 
tro  Barretti,"  he  said;  "he  is  one  of  the  most  ex 
pert  layers  of  mosaic  in  America.  He  is  from 
Naples;  that's  the  reason  he  cooks  macaroni  so 
well,  I  suppose." 

"Certainly  I  haven't  seen  macaroni  cooked 
that  way  since  I  was  in  Naples  last,"  the  nov 
elist  remarked,  for  the  sake  of  talk,  not  know 
ing  just  what  to  make  of  the  Italian's  man 
ner. 

"  Your  wife  not  here  ?"  asked  Suydam. 

"No,"  the  Italian  answered,  abruptly. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  persisted  the  young  man. 

"She  mort,"  responded  Barretti. 

"Dead?"  Suydam  cried.  "That  is  very  sad. 
When  did  she  die  ?"  . 


IN   SEARCH    OF   LOCAL    COLOR  81 

"  Ten  days,"  the  Italian  replied. 

When  Suydam  and  De  Ruyter  had  made  an 
end  of  their  visit,  and  were  going  down  the  stairs 
cautiously,  the  young  man  from  the  University 
Settlement  asked  the  novelist  if  he  had  seen  any 
thing  interesting. 

"  Oh  yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  I've  got  lots  of 
color;  just  what  I  wanted.  And  that  Italian 
whose  wife  was  mort — he's  copy,  I'm  sure." 

"  Copy  ?"  queried  Suydam. 

"I  mean  I  can  use  him  in  one  of  my  sketches 
for  the  Metropolis"  the  novelist  explained.  " I 
wish  I  knew  what  his  wife  was  like." 

"  She  was  a  pretty  girl — dark-haired,  dark-eyed, 
with  a  lively  smile,"  Suydam  said.  "  He  was 
very  jealous  of  her.  I've  been  told  they  used  to 
quarrel  bitterly." 

"  I  shouldn't  Ijke  to  have  that  fellow  for  an  en 
emy,"  De  Ruyter  declared,  as  they  passed  through 
the  alleyway  and  came  out  in  the  open  air.  "  He 
has  an  eye  like  a  glass  stiletto." 

The  novelist  and  the  young  man  from  the  Uni 
versity  Settlement  walked  up  the  street  together. 
As  they  drew  near  to  a  police-station,  jealously 
guarded  by  its  green  lamps,  three  officers  came 
out  and  turned  down  the  street. 

When  the  policemen  were  abreast  of  the  two 
friends,  one  of  them  stepped  aside  and  accosted 
the  young  man  from  the  Settlement. 

"Mr.  Suydam,"  he  said,  "you  gentlemen  from 
the  Settlement  sometimes  know  what's  going  on 

6 


82  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

better  than  we  do.  Have  you  seen  Pietro  Barrett! 
lately — the  one  they  call  Italian  Pete  ?" 

"I  saw  him  not  ten  minutes  ago — in  his  own 
room,"  Suydam  answered. 

"He's  all  right,  boys,"  cried  the  policeman. 
"  He's  there." 

"  Do  you  want  him  ?"  asked  Suydam. 

"Don't  we?"  the  policeman  replied,  promptly. 
"  We've  got  to  bring  him  in." 

"What  has  he  done?"  De  Ruyter  inquired. 

"  Oh,  he's  done  enough  !"  responded  the  officer. 
"  He  murdered  his  wife  last  week,  that's  what 
he's  done." 

Suydam  looked  at  De  Ruyter. 

"Yes,"  said  De  Ruyter,  "that  completes  the 
picture.  I  can  get  a  good  mot  de  la  fin  now." 

(1893.) 


"  '  I  SAW   HIM   NOT   TEN   MINUTES   AGO  ' 


tkes  cJBzea/i    of 


IHE  lived  in  a  little  wooden  house  on 
the  corner  of  the  street  huddled  in  the 
shadow  of  two  towering  tenements. 
There  are  a  few  frail  buildings  of 
this  sort  still  left  in  that  part  of  the 
city,  half  a  mile  east  of  the  Bowery  and  half  a  mile 
south  of  Tompkins  Square,  where  the  architecture 
is  as  irregular,  as  crowded,  and  as  little  cared  for 
as  the  population.  Amid  the  old  private  houses 
erected  for  a  single  family,  and  now  violently  al 
tered  to  accommodate  eight  or  ten — amid  the  tall 
new  tenements,  stark  and  ugly  —  here  and  there 
one  can  still  find  wooden  houses  built  before  the 
city  expanded,  half  a  century  old  now,  worn  and 
shabby  and  needlessly  ashamed  in  the  presence  of 
every  new  edifice  no  better  than  they.  With  the 
peak  of  their  shingled  roofs  they  are  pathetic  sur 
vivals  of  a  time  when  New  York  still  remembered 
that  it  had  been  New  Amsterdam,  and  when  it  did 
not  build  its  dwellings  in  imitation  of  the  poly 
glot  loftiness  of  the  Tower  of  Babel.  It  was  in 
one  of  these  little  houses  with  white  clapboarded 
walls,  ashen  gray  in  the  paling  moonlight,  that 
Maggie  O'Donnell  lay  fast  asleep,  when  the  bell 
in  a  far-off  steeple  tolled  three  in  the  morning  of 
the  day  that  was  to  be  the  Fourth  of  July. 


86  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

She  was  asleep  in  the  larger  of  the  two  little 
rooms  over  the  saloon.  In  that  part  of  the  city 
there  are  saloons  on  every  corner  almost,  and 
sometimes  two  and  three  in  a  block.  The  signs 
over  the  doors  of  most  of  these  saloons  and  over 
the  doors  of  the  groceries  and  of  the  bakeries  and 
of  the  other  shops  bear  strangely  foreign  names. 
The  German  quarter  of  the  city  is  not  far  off,  nor 
is  the  Italian,  nor  the  Chinese  ;  but  hereabouts  the 
houses  are  packed  with  Poles  chiefly,  and  chiefly 
Jews — industrious,  docile,  and  saving.  Not  until 
midnight  had  the  whir  of  the  sewing-machines 
ceased  in  the  tenements  which  occupied  the  three 
other  corners.  The  sign  over  the  door  of  the  sa 
loon  above  which  Maggie  lay  fast  asleep  bore  an 
Irish  name,  the  name  of  her  husband,  Terence 
O'Donnell.  But  the  modest  boards  which  dis 
played  his  name  were  overawed  by  the  huge 
signs  that  flanked  them,  filling  a  goodly  share 
of  the  wall  on  either  street  and  proclaiming  the 
"  McGown's  Pass  Brewery,  Kelly  &  Company." 

These  brewer's  signs  were  so  large  that  they 
made  the  little  house  seem  even  smaller  than  it 
was  —  and  it  was  not  more  than  twenty  feet 
square.  The  doors  of  the  saloon  were  right  at  the 
corner,  of  course,  to  catch  trade.  On  one  street 
there  were  two  windows,  and  on  the  other  one 
window  and  a  door  over  which  was  the  sign  "  Fam 
ily  Entrance."  This  door  opened  into  a  little  pas 
sage,  from  which  access  could  be  had  to  the  sa 
loon,  and  from  which  also  arose  the  narrow  stairs 


BEFOKE  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY          87 

leading  to  the  home  of  Terence  O'Donnell  and 
Maggie,  his  wife,  on  the  floor  above.  The  saloon 
filled  the  whole  ground -floor  except  the  space 
taken  up  by  this  entry  and  the  stairs.  A  single 
jet  of  gas  had  burned  dimly  over  the  bar  ever 
since  Terry  had  locked  up  a  little  after  midnight. 
The  bar  curved  across  the  saloon,  and  behind  it 
the  sideboard  with,  its  bevelled  -  edge  mirrors 
lined  the  two  inner  walls.  The  sideboard  glit 
tered  with  glasses  built  up  in  tiers,  and  a  lemon 
lay  yellow  at  the  top  of  every  pyramid.  The 
beer-pumps  were  in  the  centre  under  the  bar ;  at 
one  end  was  the  small  iron  safe  where  Terence 
kept  his  money ;  and  at  the  other  end,  against  the 
wall,  just  behind  the  door  which  opened  into  the 
Family  Entrance,  was  a  telephone. 

Up-stairs  there  were  two  little  rooms  and  a 
closet  or  two.  The  smaller  of  the  rooms  Maggie 
had  turned  into  a  kitchen  and  dining-room.  The 
larger  — the  one  on  the  corner  —  was  their  bed 
room,  and  here  Maggie  lay  asleep.  The  night 
was  close  and  warm,  and  though  the  windows  were 
open,  the  little  white  curtains  hung  limp  and  mo 
tionless.  The  day  before  had  been  hot  and  cloud 
less,  so  the  brick  buildings  on  the  three  other  cor 
ners  had  stored  up  heat  for  fifteen  hours,  and  had 
been  giving  it  out  ever  since  the  sun  had  set.  Sti 
fling  as  it  was,  Maggie  O'Donnell  slept  heavily. 
It  was  after  midnight  when  Terry  had  kissed  her 
at  the  door,  and  she  had  been  asleep  for  three 
hours.  Already  there  were  faint  hints  of  the  com- 


88  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

ing  day,  for  here  in  New  York  the  sun  rises  early 
on  the  Fourth  of  July — at  half-past  four.  A  breeze 
began  to  blow  lazily  up  from  the  East  River  and 
fluttered  the  curtains  feebly.  Maggie  tossed  un 
easily,  reached  out  her  hand,  and  said  "  Terry." 

Suddenly  she  was  wide  awake.  For  a  moment 
she  looked  stupidly  at  the  empty  place  beside  her, 
and  then  she  remembered  that  Terry  would  be 
gone  all  night,  working  hard  on  the  boat  and  the 
barges  making  ready  for  the  picnic.  She  turned 
again,  but  sleep  had  left  her.  She  lay  quietly  in 
bed  listening ;  she  could  catch  nothing  but  the 
heavy  rumble  of  a  brewery  wagon  in  the  next 
street  and  the  hesitating  toot  of  a  Sound  steamer. 
Then  she  heard  afar  off  three  or  four  shots  of  a 
revolver,  and  she  knew  that  some  young  fellow 
was  up  early,  and  had  already  begun  to  celebrate 
the  Fourth  on  the  roof  of  the  tenement  where  he 
lived. 

She  tried  to  go  to  sleep,  but  the  effort  was 
hopeless.  She  was  awakened  fully,  and  she  knew 
that  there  was  small  chance  of  her.  dropping  off 
into  slumber  again.  More  than  once  she  had 
wakened  like  this  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  an 
hour  or  so  before  daybreak,  and  then  she  had  to 
lie  there  in  bed  quietly  listening  to  Terry's  reg 
ular  breathing.  She  lay  there  now  alone,  think 
ing  of  Terry,  grateful  for  his  goodness  to  her, 
and  happy  in  his  love.  She  lay  there  alone,  won 
dering  where  she  would  be  now  if  Terry  had  not 
taken  pity  on  her. 


BEFORE  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY         89 

Then  all  at  once  she  raised  herself  in  bed,  and 
held  her  breath  and  listened.  For  a  second  she 
thought  she  heard  a  noise  in  the  saloon  below 

O 

her.  She  was  not  nervous  in  the  least,  but  she 
wished  Terry  had  not  left  so  much  money  in  the 
safe;  and  this  was  the  first  night  he  had  been 
away  from  her  since  they  had  been  married — 
nearly  two  years  ago.  She  strained  her  ears,  but 
the  sound  was  not  repeated.  She  sank  back  on 
the  pillow  again,  making  sure  that  it  was  a  rat 
dropping  down  from  the  bar,  where  he  had  been 
picking  up  the  crumbs  of  cheese.  There  were 
many  rats  in  the  cellar,  and  sometimes  they  vent 
ured  up  even  to  the  bedroom  and  the  kitchen 
next  door. 

Time  was  when  it  would  have  taken  a  loud 
noise  to  wake  the  girl  who  was  now  Terence 
O'Donnell's  wife  out  of  a  sound  sleep.  After  her 
mother  died,  when  Maggie  was  not  five  years  old, 
her  father  had  moved  into  one  of  the  worst  ten 
ements  in  the  city,  a  ram-shackle  old  barrack  just 
at  the  edge  of  Hell's  Kitchen  ;  and  there  was 
never  any  quiet  there,  day  or  night,  in  the  house 
or  in  the  street.  There  was  always  a  row  of  some 
sort  going  on,  whatever  the  hour  of  the  day  ; 
if  profanity  and  riot  could  keep  a  girl  awake 
she  would  never  have  had  any  sleep  there.  But 
Maggie  did  not  recall  that  she  had  been  a  wake 
ful  child;  indeed,  she  remembered  that  she  could 
sleep  at  any  time  and  anywhere.  On  the  hot 
summer  nights,  when  her  father  came  home  in- 


90  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

toxicated,  she  would  steal  away  and  climb  up 
to  the  roof  and  lie  down  there,  slumbering  as 
healthily  as  though  she  were  in  their  only  room. 

Even  then  her  father  used  to  get  drunk  often, 
on  Saturday  night  always,  and  frequently  once  or 
twice  in  the  middle  of  the  week.  And  when  he 
had  taken  too  much  he  was  mad  always.  If  he 
found  her  at  home  he  beat  her.  She  could  recall 
distinctly  the  first  time  her  father  had  knocked 
her  down,  but  the  oaths  that  had  accompanied 
the  blow  she  had  forgotten.  He  had  not  knocked 
her  down  often,  but  he  had  sworn  at  her  every 
day  of  her  life.  The  vocabulary  of  profanity 
was  the  first  that  her  infant  ears  had  learned  to 
distinguish. 

Her  father  quit  drinking  for  a  month  after  he 
married  again.  They  moved  away  from  Hell's 
Kitchen  to  a  better  house  near  the  East  River. 
All  went  well  for  a  little  while,  and  her  step 
mother  was  good  to  her.  But  her  father  went 
back  to  his  old  ways  again,  and  soon  his  new 
wife  turned  out  to  be  no  better.  When  the  fit 
was  on  they  quarrelled  with  each  other,  and  they 
took  turns  in  beating  Maggie,  if  she  were  not 
quick  to  make  her  escape.  It  was  when  aiming 
a  blow  at  Maggie  one  Saturday  night  that  her 
father  pitched  forward  and  fell  down  a  flight  of 
the  tenement-house  stairs,  and  was  picked  up  dead. 
The  neighbors  carried  him  up  to  the  room  where 
his  wife  lay  in  a  liquorish  stupor. 

Maggie  was  nearly  fourteen  then.      She  went 


BEFORE  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY          91 

on  living  with  her  step-mother,  who  got  her  a 
place  in  a  box-factory.  Th6  first  days  of  work 
were  the  happiest  of  Maggie's  girlhood.  She  re 
membered  the  joy  which  she  felt  at  her  ability 
to  earn  money  ;  it  gave  her  a  sense  of  being  her 
own  mistress,  of  being  able  to  hold  her  own  in 
the  world.  And  she  made  friends  among  the 
other  girls.  One  of  them,  Sadie  McDermott,  had 
a  brother  Jim,  who  used  to  come  around  on  Satur 
day  night  and  tease  his  sister  for  money.  Jim 
belonged  to  a  gang,  and  he  never  worked  if  he 
could  help  it.  He  had  no  trade.  Maggie  remem 
bered  the  Saturday  night  when  she  and  Sadie 
had  walked  home  together,  and  when  Jim  got 
mad  because  his  sister  would  not  divide  her 
wages  with  him.  He  snatched  her  pocket-book 
and  started  to  run.  When  Maggie  reproved  him 
with  an  oath  and  caught  him  by  one  arm,  he 
threw  her  off  so  roughly  that  she  fell  and  struck 
her  head  on  a  lamp-post  so  hard  that  she  fainted. 
As  Maggie  lay  in  her  bed  that  Fourth  of  July 
morning,  while  her  past  life  unrolled  itself  before 
her  like  a  panorama,  she  knew  that  the  scar  on  the 
side  of  her  head  was  not  the  worst  wound  Jim 
McDermott  had  dealt  her.  As  she  looked  back, 
she  wondered  how  she  had  ever  been  friendly 
with  him;  how  she  had  let  him  follow  her  about; 
how  she  had  allowed  him  to  make  love  to  her. 
It  was  on  Jim  McDermott's  account  that  she  had 
had  the  quarrel  with  her  step -mother.  Having 
robbed  a  drunken  man  of  five  dollars,  Jim  had  in- 


92  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

vited  Maggie  to  a  picnic;  and  the  step -mother,  a 
little  drunker  than  usual  that  evening,  had  said 
that  if  Maggie  went  with  him  she  would  not  be 
received  again.  Maggie  was  not  one  to  take  a 
dare,  and  she  told  Jim  she  would  go  with  him  in 
the  morning.  The  step-mother  cursed  her  for  an 
ungrateful  girl;  and  when  Maggie  returned  with 
him  from  the  picnic  late  the  next  night,  and  came 
to  the  door  of  the  room  where  she  and  her  step 
mother  lived,  they  found  it  locked  against  her, 
and  all  Maggie's  possessions  tied  in  a  bundle,  and 
scornfully  left  outside  on  the  landing. 

It  had  not  taken  Jim  long  that  night  to  per 
suade  Maggie  to  go  away  with  him ;  and  she  had 
not  seen  her  step-mother  since.  A  week  later,  but 
not  before  he  and  Maggie  had  quarrelled,  Jim  was 
arrested  for  robbing  the  drunken  man  ;  he  was 
sent  up  to  the  Island.  Since  the  picnic  Maggie 
had  not  been  back  to  the  factory.  Jim  had  taken 
her  with  him  one  night  to  a  dance-hall,  and  there 
she  went  without  him  when  she  was  left  alone  in 
the  world.  There  she  had  met  Terry  a  month 
later.  When  she  first  saw  Terry  the  thing  plain 
est  before  her  was  the  Morgue;  she  was  on  the 
way  there,  and  she  was  going  fast,  and  she  knew 
it.  Although  winter  had  not  yet  come,  she  had 
already  a  cough  that  racked  her  day  and  night. 

And  as  she  lay  there  in  her  comfortable  bed, 
and  thought  of  the  chill  of  the  Morgue  from  which 
Terry  had  saved  her,  she  closed  her  eyes  to  keep 
out  the  dreadful  picture,  and  she  clinched  her 


HE    BELONGED   TO   A  "GANG 


BEFORE  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY          93 

fists  across  her  forehead.  Then  she  smiled  as  she 
remembered  the  way  Terry  had  thrashed  Jim, 
who  had  got  off  the  Island  somehow  before  his 
time  was  up.  Jim  said  he  had  a  pull  with  the 
police,  and  he  came  to  her  for  money,  and  he 
threatened  to  have  her  taken  up.  It  was  then 
Terry  had  the  scrap  with  him,  and  did  him  up. 
Terry  had  had  a  day  off,  for  his  boss  kept  closed 
on  Sundays;  at  that  time  Terry  was  keeping  bar 
at  a  high-toned  cafe  near  Gramercy  Park. 

When  he  thrashed  Jim  that  was  not  the  first 
time  Terry  had  been  good  to  her.  Nor  was  it  the 
last.  A  fortnight  later  he  took  her  away  from 
the  dance-hall,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a  day 
off  he  married  her.  They  went  down  to  the  Tombs, 
and  the  judge  married  them.  The  judge  knew 
Terry,  and  when  he  had  kissed  the  bride  he  con 
gratulated  Terry,  and  said  that  the  new-made 
husband  was  a  lucky  man,  and  that  he  had  got  a 
good  wife. 

A  good  wife  Maggie  knew  she  had  been,  and 
she  was  sure  she  brought  Terry  luck.  When  the 
man  who  had  been  running  the  house  which 
now  bore  the  name  of  Terence  O'Donnell  over  its 
door  got  into  trouble  and  had  to  skip  the  country, 
the  boss  had  put  Terry  in  charge,  and  had  let 
Maggie  go  to  house-keeping  in  the  little  rooms 
over  the  saloon;  and  when  the  boss  died  suddenly, 
his  widow  knew  Terry  was  honest,  and  sold  out 
the  place  to  him,  cheap,  on  the  instalment  plan. 
That  was  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and  all  the  instal- 


94  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

ments  had  been  paid  except  the  last,  which  was 
not  due  for  a' week  yet,  though  the  money  for  it 
lay  all  ready  in  the  safe  down-stairs.  And  Terry 
was  doing  well;  he  was  popular;  his  friends  would 
come  two  blocks  out  of  the  way  to  get  a  drink  at 
his  place;  and  he  had  just  had  a  chance  to  go  into 
a  picnic  speculation.  He  was  sure  to  make  money; 
and  perhaps  in  two  or  three  years  they  might  be 
able  to  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  the  fixtures.  Then 
they  would  be  rich  ;  and  perhaps  Terry  would 
get  into  politics. 

Suddenly  the  current  of  Maggie's  thoughts 
was  arrested.  From  the  floor  below  there  came 
sounds,  confused  and  muffled,  and  yet  unmistak 
able.  Maggie  listened,  motionless,  and  then  she 
got  out.  of  bed  quickly.  She  knew  that  there 
was  some  one  in  the  saloon  down-stairs;  and  at 
that  hour  no  one  could  be  there  for  a  good  pur 
pose.  Whoever  was  there  was  a  thief.  Perhaps 
it  was  some  one  of  the  toughs  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  who  knew  that  Terry  was  away. 

She  had  no  weapon  of  any  kind,  but  she  was 
not  in  the  least  afraid.  She  stepped  cautiously 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  crept  stealthily 
down,  not  delaying  to  put  on  her  stockings.  The 
sounds  in  the  saloon  continued ;  they  were  few 
and  slight,  but  Maggie  could  interpret  them  plain 
ly  enough  ;  they  told  her  that  a  man  having  got 
into  the  house  somehow,  had  now  gone  behind  the 
bar.  Probably  he  was  trying  to  steal  the  change 
in  the  cash-drawer;  she  was  glad  that  Terry  had 


UA    LITTLK    DKUNKEU    THAN    USUAL" 


BEFORE  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY          95 

locked  all  his  money  in  the  safe  just  before  he 
went  off. 

When  Maggie  had  slipped  down  the  stairs  gen 
tly,  and  stood  in  the  little  passageway  with  the 
door  into  the  saloon  ajar  before  her,  she  felt  a 
slight  draught,  and  she  knew  that  the  thief  had 
entered  through  a  window,  and  had  left  it  open. 
Yet  there  was  no  use  in  her  calling  for  assistance. 
The  only  people  within  reach  of  her  voice  were 
the  poor  Poles,  who  were  too  poor  -  spirited  to 
protest  even  if  they  saw  her  robbed  in  broad  day 
light  ;  they  were  cowardly  creatures  all  of  them; 
and  she  could  not  hope  for  help  from  them  as 
she  would  if  they  were  only  white  men.  The 
policeman  might  be  within  reach  of  her  cry;  but 
he  .had  a  long  beat,  and  there  was  only  a  slim 
chance  that  he  was  near. 

Her  head  was  clear,  and  she  thought  swiftly. 
The  thing  to  do,  the  only  thing,  was  to  make  use 
of  the  telephone  to  summon  assistance.  The  in 
strument  was  within  two  feet  of  her  as  she  stood 
in  the  passage,  but  it  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  at  the  end  of  the  bar,  and  therefore  in  full 
view  of  any  one  who  might  be  in  the  saloon. 
And  it  would  not  be  possible  to  ring  up  the  cen 
tral  office  and  call  for  help  without  being  heard 
by  the  robber. 

Having  made  up  her  mind  what  it  was  best  for 
her  to  do,  Maggie  did  not  hesitate  a  moment;  she 
pushed  the  door  gently  before  her  and  stepped 
silently  into  the  saloon.  As  the  faint  light  from 


96  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

the  single  dim  jet  of  gas  burning  over  the  bar  fell 
upon  her,  she  looked  almost  pretty,  with  the  aure 
ole  of  her  reddish  hair,  and  with  her  firm  young 
figure  draped  in  the  coarse  white  gown.  She 
glanced  around  her,  and  for  a  second  she  saw  no 
one.  The  window  before  her  was  open,  but  the 
man  who  had  broken  in  was  not  in  sight. 

As  she  peered  about  she  heard  a  scratching, 
grating  noise,  and  then  she  saw  the  top  of  a 
man's  head  just  appearing  above  the  edge  of  the 
bar  behind  which  his  body  was  concealed.  She 
knew  then  that  the  thief  was  trying  to  get  into 
the  safe  where  Terry's  money  was  locked  up. 

Leaving  the  door  wide  open  behind  her,  Mag 
gie  took  the  two  steps  that  brought  her  to  the 
telephone,  and  rapidly  turned  the  handle.  Then 
she  faced  about  swiftly  to  see  what  the  man 
would  do. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  bob  his  head  sud 
denly  under  the  bar,  disappearing  wholly.  Then 
he  slowly  raised  his  face  above  the  edge  of  the 
bar,  and  Maggie  found  herself  staring  into  the 
shifty  eyes  of  Jim  McDermott. 

"  Hello,  Maggie  !"  he  said,  as  he  stood  up.  "Is 
that  you  ?" 

She  saw  that  he  had  a  revolver  in  his  right 
hand.  But  she  put  up  her  hand  again  and  re 
peated  the  telephone  call. 

"  Drop  that !"  he  cried,  as  he  raised  the  re 
volver.  "You  try  to  squeal  and  I'll  shoot — 
see?" 


"'DROP  THAT!'  HE  CRIED" 


BEFORE  THE  BREAK  OF  DAY          97 

"  Where  did  you  steal  that  pistol,  Jim  McDer- 
mott  ?"  was  all  she  answered. 

"  None  o'  your  business  where  I  got  it,"  he  re 
torted.  "  I  got  it  good  and  ready  for  you  now. 
I  kin  use  it  too,  and  don't  you  forget  it !  You 
quit  that  telephone  or  you'll  see  how  quick  I  can 
shoot.  You  hear  me  ?" 

She  did  not  reply.  She  was  waiting  for  the 
central  office  to  acknowledge  her  call.  She  looked 
Jim  McDermott  square  in  the  eyes,  and  it  was  he 
who  was  uncomfortable  and  not  she. 

Then  the  bell  of  the  telephone  rang,  and  she 
turned  and  spoke  into  the  instrument  clearly  and 
rapidly  and  yet  without  flurry.  "  This  is  31  Chat 
ham.  There's  a  burglar  here.  It's  Jim  McDer 
mott.  Send  the  police  quick." 

This  was  her  message  ;  and  then  she  faced 
about  sharply  and  cried  to  him,  "  Now  shoot,  and 
be  damned  !" 

He  took  her  at  her  word,  and  fired.  The  bullet 
bored  a  hole  in  the  wooden  box  of  the  telephone. 

Maggie  laughed  tauntingly,  and  slipped  swiftly 
out  of  the  door,  but  not  swiftly  enough  to  avoid 
the  second  bullet. 

Five  minutes  later  when  the  police  arrived,  just 
as  the  day  was  beginning  to  break,  they  found  Jim 
McDermott  fled,  the  window  open,  the  safe  unin 
jured,  and  Maggie  O'Donnell  lying  in  the  pas 
sageway  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  her  night-gown 
stained  with  blood  from  a  flesh  wound  in  her  arm. 

(1893.) 
T 


,  in  ®  i 


@  m  ®  M  ®  HI  ®  HI  ®  HI  @  in  ® 


C/foiclduminer' 


(FTER  three  years'  service  at  sea  on 
the  flag-ship  of  the  White  Squadron, 
Lieutenant  John  Stone  had  a  long 
leave  of  absence.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  one  of  the  hottest  days  of 
August  when  he  left  the  navy-yard  and  took  the 
ferry  to  New  York.  The  street-car  in  which  he 
rode  across  town  crawled  along,  the  horses  seem 
ing  to  be  exhausted  by  the  wearing  weather  of 
the  preceding  fortnight,  and  the  driver  had  no 
energy  to  keep  them  up  to  their  work. 

It  mattered  little  to  John  Stone  how  slowly 
they  went  ;  he  was  in  no  hurry  ;  he  had  nothing 
to  do  ;  he  had  nobody  waiting  for  him.  At  forty 
he  was  alone  in  the  world,  without  a  blood-rela 
tion  anywhere  or  any  nearer  than  a  second  cousin, 
without  a  home,  without  an  address,  except  "  Care 
of  the  Navy  Department,  Washington,  D.C."  He 
was  almost  without  ambition  even  in  the  service 
now,  for  he  had  not  yet  had  a  command,  and  he 
would  not  get  his  step  for  three  or  four  years 
more.  He  was  fond  of  his  profession,  and  of  late 
he  had  been  working  lovingly  at  its  early  history. 
He  had  come  to  New  York  now  to  look  up  in  the 
libraries  a  few  missing  links  in  an  account  of  the 


OF    MANHATTAN 


rise  and  fall  of  Carthage  as  a  sea  power.  To  be 
near  the  books  he  had  to  consult,  he  was  going  to 
stay  at  a  hotel  within  two  or  three  blocks  of 
Washington  Square. 

When  he  had  registered  at  the  hotel,  the  clerk, 
reading  his  name  upsidedown,  said,  courteously: 
"  I'm  sorry  we  can't  do  better  for  you,  Mr.  Stone, 
but  I  shall  have  to  put  you  on  the  sixth  floor. 
You  see,  we  are  overrun  with  our  Southern  and 
Western  trade  now  ;  they  have  found  out  that 
New  York  is  the  finest  summer  resort  in  the 
country.  The  best  I  can  do  for  you  is  to  give 
you  a  room  on  the  Avenue,  with  a  bath-room 
attached." 

"  That  will  do  very  well,"  Stone  answered. 

"Front  !"  called  the  clerk.  "Show  Mr.  Stone 
up  to  313." 

When  the  naval  officer  reached  room  313  it 
was  nearly  six  o'clock.  He  threw  open  the  win 
dow  and  looked  down  at  the  street  below.  Even 
at  that  height  the  heat  welled  up  from  the  stone 
sidewalks  and  from  the  brick  walls  opposite.  To 
his  ear  it  seemed  almost  as  though  the  mighty 
roar  of  the  metropolis  rose  to  him  muffled  and 
made  more  remote  by  the  heat.  ,  He  lighted  a 
cigar  and  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  won 
dered  how  many  people  there  were  in  all  the  city 
whom  he  knew  by  sight,  and  how  very  few  there 
were  who  could  call  him  by  name. 

A  sweltering  wind  from  the  west  swayed  the 
thick  and  dusty  branches  of  the  trees  which  lined 


I    SIZED    YOU    UP    WHEN   YOU    COME    IN 


A   MIDSUMMER    MIDNIGHT  103 

the  curb  far  down  below  him.  He  threw  his  ci 
gar  away  half  smoked.  Then  he  took  a  cold 
bath,  and  went  down  to  the  dining-room  some 
what  refreshed. 

At  the  table  to  which  the  head  waiter  waved 
him  there  was  already  one  man  sitting,  a  tall, 
handsome  young  fellow  of  twenty-five,  perhaps. 
Stone  liked  the  man's  face,  and  he  liked  the  way 
the  flannel  shirt  was  cut  so  as  to  leave  the  full 
throat  free.  The  manner  in  which  the  simple 
scarf  was  knotted  and  its  ends  tucked  into  the 
shirt  he  noticed  also  ;  and  he  saw  that  the  young 
fellow  had  insisted  on  bringing  his  black  slouch 
hat  with  him  into  the  dining-room,  having  hung 
it  on  the  back  of  the  next  chair.  When  this  seat 
was  given  to  Stone,  the  hat  was  promptly  trans 
ferred  to  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  own 
er.  Stone  made  up  his  mind  that  his  neighbor 
was  a  ranchman  of  some  sort,  who  had  come  East 
on  business. 

It  does  not  take  long  for  two  lonely  men  to 
get  acquainted ;  and  before  he  had  eaten  his 
green  corn,  Stone  knew  all  about  his  neighbor  at 
table,  and  the  neighbor  knew  something  about 
him. 

"I  sized  you  up  when  you  come  in,"  the  young 
fellow  said,  "an'  I  took  stock  in  you  from  the 
start.  Somehow  I  kind  o'  thought  you  was  one 
of  Uncle  Sam's  boys,  though  o'  course  I  didn't 
'low  you  was  a  sailor.  I  never  see  a  sailor  till 
this  mornin',  when  I  went  down  on  the  dock  to 


104  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

get  news  of  this  Touraine  steamer,  an'  the  sailor 
down  there  was  a  Frenchman,  an'  not  like  you, 
not  by  a  jugful.  I  suppose,  now,  Uncle  Sam's 
sailors  are  like  his  other  boys  I've  seen  at  home 
often.  There's  Dutchmen  that  ain't  bad  men,  an' 
I've  seen  Dagoes  you  could  tie  to,  and  sometimes 
a  greaser,  now  and  then — not  but  what  they's 
powerful  skase,  greasers  you  can  trust — but  Un 
cle  Sam's  boys  are  white  men  every  time." 

The  young  fellow  was  Clay  Magruder.  He 
was  a  cowboy,  as  Stone  had  supposed,  and  he  was 
in  New  York  on  a  mission  of  the  highest  impor 
tance  to  himself.  He  was  waiting  for  the  girl  he 
wanted  to  marry,  and  she  was  expected  to  arrive 
the  next  morning  on  the  French  steamer. 

"The  grub  here  ain't  so  bad, is  it?"  Magruder 
said,  as  the  repast  drew  to  an  end.  "  O'  course 
it  ain't  like  what  we  get  at  home.  I  don't  find 
nowhere  no  beef  that's  equal  to  the  beef  we've 
been  gettin'  right  along  now  for  two  years,  ever 
since  I've  been  with  Old  Man  Pettigrew.  The 
Hash-knife  Outfit  always  has  the  best  cookin'  on 
the  trail.  It's  jest  notorious  for  it.  Things  here 
in  New  York  is  good  enough,  but  the  flavor  don't 
take  hold  of  you  like  it  does  at  home  ;  an'  their 
coffee  East  is  poor  stuff,  ain't  it  ?  It  don't  bite 
you  like  coffee  should." 

After  dinner  they  went  into  the  smoking-room 
of  the  hotel,  and  Stone  offered  a  cigar  to  his  new 
friend. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  he  responded,  taking  a  small 


A   MIDSUMMER   MIDNIGHT  105 

brier-wood  pipe  out  of  his  trousers-pocket.  "  I 
don't  go  much  on  cigars  ;  I  can  git  more  solid 
comfort  out  of  a  pipe,  I  reckon."  After  he  had 
filled  his  pipe  and  pulled  at  it  half  a  dozen  times, 
he  said  to  Stone,  suddenly  :  "  Say  !  is  there  any 
show  in  town  to-night  ?  I've  got  a  night  off,  you 
know,  and  I've  allus  heerd  that  for  shows  New 
York  could  lay  over  everything  in  sight.  You've 
been  to  this  town  before,  haven't  you  ?" 

Stone  admitted  that  this  was  not  his  first  visit 
to  New  York. 

"I  reckoned  so,"  was  Clay  Magruder's  com 
ment.  "An*  so  you  know  your  way  here,  an'  I 
don't ;  there's  too  many  trails  crossin'  for  me  to 
keep  to  the  road.  Suppose  we  go  to  the  show 
together — ef  there  is  a  show  in  town  ?" 

Stone  bought  an  evening  paper,  and  looked 
over  the  list  of  amusements.  He  wondered  what 
would  best  suit  the  tastes  of  his  new  friend. 

"  There's  Deadwood  Dick's  Wild  Western  Ex 
hibition  at  Niblo's — "  he  began. 

"  Deadwood  Dick  ?"  interrupted  the  cowboy, 
in  great  contempt  ;  "he's  a  holy  show,  he  is. 
He's  a  fraud  ;  that's  what  he  is.  An'  is  he  the 
only  thing  we  can  take  in  to-night?" 

"Oh  no,"  the  sailor  replied.  "There  are  half 
a  dozen  other  things  to  see.  There's  a  comic 
opera  at  the  Garden  Theatre,  with  a  variety  show 
up  in  the  roof  garden  afterwards." 

"  A  comic  opera — singing,  and  funny  business, 
and  pretty  girls,  I  suppose  ?"  said  the  Westerner. 


106  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

"I  reckon  we'd  might  as  well  go  there — unless 
you'd  rather  go  somewhere  else." 

"  The  comic  opera  and  the  roof  garden  will  just 
suit  me,"  Stone  responded. 

They  were  fortunate  in  getting  good  seats  at 
the  theatre,  where  they  arrived  as  the  curtain  was 
rising  on  the  first  act  of  "  Patience."  Even  in  mid 
summer  the  attire  of  Stone's  new  friend  attracted 
some  attention,  and  a  group  of  pretty  girls  in  the 
row  behind  them  nudged  each  other  as  he  came 
in  and  giggled.  In  their  hearts  they  were  glad 
to  look  at  so  handsome  a  man. 

During  the  first  act  Magruder's  face  was  a 
study  for  Stone.  It  was  evident  that  the  cowboy 
failed  wholly  to  understand  the  narrow  and  in 
sular  satire  of  "  Patience."  When  the  curtain  fell 
at  last,  he  could  contain  himself  no  longer. 

"  I  never  see  such  a  fool  play,"  he  said.  "  There 
ain't  no  sense  in  makin'  believe  that  one  fellow 
could  round  up  a  bunch  of  girls  that  way.  It's 
the  plumb-stupidest  show  I've  seen  for  years  and 
years.  It's  bad  as  Deadwood  Dick  'most.  '  Pa 
tience  '  they  call  it  ?  Well,  I  'ain't  got  none  to 
see  no  more  of  it.  What's  this  roof  garden  you 
told  me  about  ?" 

So  Stone  took  him  up  to  the  roof  garden,  and 
they  were  glad  to  get  again  into  the  open  air, 
baked  as  the  atmosphere"  was  even  at  the  top  of 
the  building.  They  had  a  drink  and  a  smoke 
while  they  listened  to  the  music. 

When   the   variety   show  began  on  the  little 


'  '  I   DON'T   GO   MUCH   ON    CIGARS 


A   MIDSUMMER   MIDNIGHT  107 

stage,  Stone  went  forward  in  time  to  secure  ad 
vantageous  positions  for  Magruder  and  himself. 
Early  on  the  programme  was  a  French  song  by  a 
highly-colored  young  lady  wearing  an  enormous 
hat. 

"That's  a  good  enough  song,"  the  cowboy  de 
clared,  "  but  what  sort  of  a  lingo  is  it  she's  sing- 
in'  it  in  ?  Why  isn't  plain  United  States  good 
enough  for  songs  ?  Not  but  what  she's  a  pretty 
girl,  too,  and  lively  on  her  feet." 

The  part  of  the  performance  which  excited 
Clay  Magruder's  warmest  appreciation  was  the 
serpentine  dance  of  Mademoiselle  filoise.  When 
he  beheld  the  coiling  draperies  of  that  graceful 
young  woman  curving  about  in  picturesque  and 
unexpected  convolutions,  and  heightened  in  effect 
by  the  changing  colors  of  the  lime-lights  directed 
upon  the  stage,  his  enthusiasm  rose  to  a  height. 

"That's  some/"  he  cried.  "It  reminds  me  of 
an  Eyetalian  gal  I  saw  dance  once  in  Cheyenne. 
She  was  a  daisy,  too  ;  but  this  is  bigger.  They's 
no  doubt  about  it,  this  is  a  heap  bigger." 

Magruder  joined  in  accomplishing  the  inevi 
table  recall  and  the  repetition  of  a  part  of  the 
dance.  Perhaps  this  was  the  reason  why  the 
next  two  or  three  numbers  of  the  programme 
seemed  to  him  to  be  less  interesting.  At  all 
events,  both  the  cowboy  and  the  sailor  tired  of 
the  entertainment.  So  they  made  their  way 
through  the  crowd  and  down  to  the  street. 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  hotel  Magruder 


108  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

told  Stone  what  had  brought  him  to  New  York. 
It  was  to  meet  the  Touraine  on  her  expected  ar 
rival  in  the  morning,  and  to  persuade  one  of  the 
passengers  to  marry  him. 

"  She's  jest  got  to  marry  me,"  he  said,  earnest 
ly.  "I  can't  get  along  without  her  any  longer. 
She's  a  sort  of  governess  to  Old  Man  Pettigrew's 
sister's  kids  —  learns  them  to  read  and  play  the 
pianner.  They  was  all  in  Miles  City  last  winter, 
and  that  was  when  I  first  see  her.  I  made  up  my 
mind  right  off  on  the  spot  that  there  was  Mrs. 
Clay  Magruder  if  I  could  get  her.  And  I'm  here 
now  to  get  her  if  I  can.  She's  as  pretty  as  a  pict 
ure — better'n  that,  too,  for  I  never  see  no  chromo 
half  as  good  -  lookin'  as  her.  Once  last  winter 
they  was  'most  a  blizzard  ;  leastways  the  wind 
set  back  on  its  hind -legs  and  howled.  You 
ought  to  have  seen  her  then,  with  the  color  in  her 
cheeks  !  An'  everything  was  froze  stiff,  and  she 
was  skeered  of  fallin'.  Why,  she  teetered  along 
jest  like  a  chicken  with  a  jag."  And  he  laughed 
out  loud  at  the  recollection.  "  She'll  be  here  in 
the  mornin',  and  you  shall  see  her.  I'm  goin'  to 
be  down  on  that  dock  good  an'  early  to-morrow, 
and  no  French  sailor  ain't  goin'  to  stand  me  off." 

As  they  drew  near  to  the  hotel,  Magruder  re 
marked  :  "  Say  !  ain't  they  a  jag-factory  some- 
wheres  round  here  ?  Come  in  and  have  one  with 
me." 

Stone  went  with  him,  and  they  drank  the  young 
lady's  health,  Magruder  expatiating  on  her  charms 


A    MIDSUMMER    MIDNIGHT  109 

and  on  the  happiness  that  awaited  him  when  he 
should  marry  her.  Then  they  crossed  the  street 
to  the  hotel  and  went  up  to  their  rooms. 

As  it  happened,  the  room  of  Clay  Magruder 
was  exactly  opposite  John  Stone's,  so  it  was  at 
their  own  doors  that  they  parted  for  the  night 
with  a  hearty  grasp  of  the  hand. 

The  sailor  found  the  air  of  his  room  stifling. 
He  threw  wide  the  window  and  stood  for  a  while 
looking  out  over  the  heated  city  as  it  lay  around 
him  in  the  darkness.  He  wondered  what  the  girl 
was  like  whom  Magruder  had  come  East  to  meet, 
and  he  caught  himself  almost  envying  the  cow 
boy.  Then  he  sighed  unconsciously  and  made 
ready  for  bed.  As  he  wound  up  his  watch  he 
saw  that  it  wa"s  nearly  half  -  past  eleven.  Five 
minutes  afterwards  he  was  asleep. 

He  had  been  asleep  but  five  minutes,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  when  he  was  waked  slowly  with  a 
slight  difficulty  in  breathing,  and  with  the  feeling 
that  all  was  not  well.  While  he  was  still  drowsy, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  crackling  sound  like  the 
snapping  of  dry  twigs.  When  he  opened  his 
eyes  he  found  that  they  smarted.  The  first  long 
breath  that  he  drew  filled  his  lungs  with  thin 
smoke.  In  an  instant  he  was  wide  awake.  The 
meaning  of  the  crackling  and  the  snapping  was 
not  doubtful.  The  hotel  was  on  fire. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed  and  opened  the  door  of 
his  room.  The  corridor  was  full  of  smoke,  and 
the  sound  of  the  flames  was  louder.  At  the  bend 


110  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

in  the  hall  where  the  stairs  were,  sharp  tongues 
of  flame  were  licking  around  the  corner.  Stone 
saw  that  his  retreat  that  way  was  cut  off,  and 
that  he  must  rely  on  the  windows  for  escape.  He 
crossed  to  the  door  opposite,  pounded  at  it  heavi 
ly,  and  cried  "  Fire  !  Fire  !  Get  up  at  once !"  till 
Clay  Magruder  answered.  The  floor  of  the  corri 
dor  was  hot  beneath  his  feet  as  he  went  back  to 
his  own  room,  closed  the  door,  and  dressed  him 
self  as  swiftly  as  he  could,  the  murmur  of  the  fire 
growing  nearer  and  nearer. 

When  he  was  still  in  his  shirt-sleeves  he  stepped 
again  to  the  corridor  and  called  across  to  Ma 
gruder. 

The  door  opposite  opened,  and  the  cowboy  ap 
peared  in  it,  half-dressed. 

"The  stairs  are  on  fire,"  cried  Stone;  "we 
can't  get  out  that  way.  We  must  try  the  win 
dows.  Take  your  sheets  and  your  blankets  and 
come  in  here." 

"I  wish  I'd  a  couple  of  lariats  here,"  said  Ma 
gruder,  as  he  went  back  for  the  bed-linen. 

The  air  in  the  hall  was  now  thick  and  suffocat 
ing,  and  the  stairs  at  the  corner  were  a  furnace 
of  fierce  flames.  Here  and  there  thin  threads  of 
smoke  were  rising  from  the  floor  of  the  corridor. 

The  cowboy  reappeared  in  his  doorway,  with 
his  arms  full  of  bedclothes. 

"  Come  in  here  quick,  so  that  I  can  get  this 
door  shut  and  keep  out  the  smoke,"  said  the  sailor, 
standing  back  to  leave  the  doorway  open. 


A    MIDSUMMER    MIDNIGHT  HI 

As  Magruder  stepped  out  of  his  room,  the  floor 
of  the  corridor  gave  way  with  a  crash,  and  a  red- 
hot  gulf  yawned  between  the  two  rooms.  Stone 
leaned  far  forward  to  try  and  save  his  new  friend. 
But  the  falling  of  the  floor  was  too  sudden,  and 
Magruder  went  down  into  the  roaring  furnace 
below,  from  which  the  flames  sprang  up  fiercely. 
In  a  moment  he  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  seeth 
ing  fire.  Stone  stood  stock-still  for  a  second, 
bent  over  the  blazing  opening,  with  his  arm  out 
stretched  until  the  heat  scorched  it.  Then  he 
rose  to  his  feet  swiftly  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him. 

His  own  room  was  now  full  of  smoke,  and  he 
knew  that  the  door  would  be  on  fire  in  less  than 
a  minute.  He  threw  open  the  window  and  looked 
down,  seeing  at  once  that  his  bedding  alone  would 
be  useless,  as  it  would  take  him  down  two  stories 
at  the  most,  while  the  fire  had  already  broken  out 
at  the  front  of  the  building.  He  discovered  that 
there  was  a  ledge  or  narrow  cornice  running 
around  the  house  just  on  the  end  of  his  floor.  He 
stepped  out  upon  this,  and  closed  the  window  be 
hind  him.  As  he  did  so,  the  flames  burst  through 
from  the  corridor  into  his  room. 

Standing  outside  of  his  window  on  the  narrow 
ledge,  which  gave  him  a  scant  foothold,  he  saw 
in  front  of  him  on  his  right  what  he  had  not  be 
fore  observed — a  tall  tower  with  an  illuminated 
clock  face.  The  hands  pointed  to  four  minutes 
past  midnight.  From  the  street  below  there  arose 


112  VIGNETTES   OF   MANHATTAN 

a  confused  murmur  of  noises — shouts  and  cries 
of  command,  the  rattle  of  heavy  wheels  as  the 
engines  rushed  up,  the  regular  rhythmic  beat  of 
the  pumps  as  they  got  into  play,  the  hissing  of 
steam  as  a  dozen  streams  of  water  curved  upward 
and  smote  the  burning  building.  The  foliage  of 
the  trees  which  lined  the  curb  was  so  thick  that 
Stone  could  not  see  the  sidewalk  just  below  him, 
and  apparently  those  in  charge  of  operations  had 
not  seen  him. 

The  sailor  had  faced  death  before  —  he  had 
weathered  many  a  fierce  gale  at  sea ;  he  had  been 
at  Samoa  during  the  hurricane  ;  he  had  been  over 
board  for  an  hour  once  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay — and 
he  was  not  afraid  to  die.  He  recalled  his  sensa 
tions  when  he  believed  himself  to  be  drowning, 
and  he  remembered  that  his  dominant  thought 
had  been  that  such  a  death  then  and  there  was 
needless  and  served  no  purpose.  On  that  occa 
sion  he  was  more  or  less  passive,  being  spent  with 
the  struggle  against  the  waves  ;  at  present  he  was 
strong  and  ready  to  make  a  fight  for  his  life. 
Then  he  had  to  contend  with  water,  and  now  he 
knew  that  water  was  his  chief  hope. 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  louder  roar  from 
far  down  in  the  street  below  :  the  water-tower 
had  arrived.  It  was  speedily  erected  and  in  ser 
vice,  and  from  its  long  trunk  a  thick  stream  of 
water  was  forced  into  the  blazing  hotel  perhaps 
fifty  feet  from  where  Stone  was  standing.  He 
watched  it  at  work,  and  then  he  raised  his  eyes 


A    MIDSUMMER    MIDNIGHT  113 

and  again  caught  sight  of  the  illuminated  dial, 
whereon  the  hands  now  pointed  to  seven  minutes 
after  midnight. 

Stone  wondered  whether  the  firemen  would  be 
able  to  get  the  better  of  the  flames.  He  doubted 
it,  but  he  wished  that  he  could  take  part  in  the 
fight.  It  was  rather  the  helplessness  of  his  position 
than  its  f earf ulness  that  he  felt  most  keenly.  He 
was  in  danger,  and  the  danger  was  deepening  with 
every  minute  of  delay,  but  he  could  do  nothing. 
The  ledge  on  which  he  was  standing  was  barely 
a  foot  wide,  and  it  was  perhaps  ten  feet  long. 
Its  length  measured  the  width  of  his  room,  which 
projected  a  yard  or  more  beyond  the  main  line  of 
the  building.  Stone  moved  cautiously  to  the  right 
till  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  ledge,  in  the  hope 
that  it  continued  around  the  side,  and  that  by 
following  it  he  might  pass  along  the  whole  front 
of  the  hotel,  and  perhaps  find  some  way  to  escape 
to  the  roof  of  the  house  next  door. 

But  the  hope  was  futile,  for  the  slight  cornice 
shrank  away  as  it  turned  back  till  it  was  barely 
an  inch  wide.  The  sailor  was  used  to  an  insecure 
footing  at  a  great  height,  and  his  nerves  were 
steady ;  but  he  knew  that  it  was  certain  destruc 
tion  for  him  to  try  to  advance  in  that  direction. 
With  his  back  pressed  tight  to  the  wall,  he  glided 
along  to  the  window,  now  lighted  up  by  the  flames 
which  filled  his  room.  He  pushed  past  it  to  the 
left  until  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  ledge  on  that 
side,  finding  that  the  projection  ceased  on  the  one 


114  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

hand  as  it  had  on  the  other.  He  felt  himself 
a  prisoner,  held  fast,  with  little  hope  of  rescue ; 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  could  he  move; 
behind  him  was  the  wall  of  the  blazing  hotel,  and 
before  him  was  a  sheer  drop  of  sixty  feet  to  the 
street  below.  He  glanced  down  for  an  instant, 
and  then  raised  his  head  again.  To  the  right,  in 
the  distance,  was  the  clock-tower,  and  it  was  now 
nine  minutes  past  twelve.  He  wondered  if  the 
clock  had  stopped  suddenly,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
nearly  an  hour  since  he  had  awaked  to  find  him 
self  in  peril  of  his  life. 

He  thought  of  Magruder,  and  he  wondered  why 
the  man  who  had  hopes  and  joys  before  him 
should  be  cut  off,  while  the  man  who  had  little 
to  live  for  should  be  given  a  chance  for  his  life. 
That  the  cowboy  had  perished  in  the  flames  he 
had  no  doubt ;  and  in  a  flash  his  imagination  bore 
him  outside  of  the  exigencies  of  the  moment,  and 
he  had  a  vision  of  the  Touraine  making  her  way 
past  Sandy  Hook,  and  drawing  near  to  Staten 
Island  and  anchoring  there,  too  far  from  the  city 
for  its  passengers  to  see  the  glare  of  the  confla 
gration.  Yet  the  fire  was  one  to  be  seen  from 
afar,  for  there  was  a  sullen  roar,  and  the  roof  of 
a  wing  of  the  hotel  fell  in.  A  myriad  of  sparks 
was  blasted  upward,  and  the  crowd  in  the  street 
raised  a  loud  shout  of  warning.  Stone  looked 
down,  and  he  saw  a  woman  at  a  window  of  the 
floor  below  him  ;  she  was  shrieking  with  terror, 
and  at  last  she  gave  a  wild  spring  forward.  He 


A    MLDSUHMEK    MIDNIGHT  115 

beheld  her  crash  through  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  and  he  heard  her  body  strike  the  sidewalk. 
There  was  a  yell  of  horror  from  the  crowd,  and 
then  silence.  A  few  seconds  later  Stone  caught 
the  quick  clang  of  an  ambulance  bell  in  the  side 
street.  He  counted  the  strokes  automatically  un 
til  they  died  away  in  the  distance.  His  ear  was 
so  strained  to  catch  this  sound  that  he  heard  the 
rattle  of  a  train  stopping  at  the  station  of  the  ele 
vated  railroad  only  a  block  away,  and  he  seized 
even  the  shrill  squeak  of  the  brakes  as  they  grated 
against  the  wheels.  Then  he  aroused  himself,  and 
wondered  why  he  had  noted  such  trifles.  Turn 
ing  his  head,  he  found  the  single  eye  of  the  clock- 
tower  still  beaming  at  him.  He  blinked  stupidly 
before  he  saw  that  it  was  now  thirteen  minutes 
after  twelve. 

More  engines  had  arrived  in  the  street  below, 
and  another  hook-and-ladder  truck.  Several  small 
ladders  had  been  put  up  to  the  lower  windows, 
and  women  and  children  had  been  carried  down 
in  safety.  Stone  watched  while  the  firemen  tried 
to  raise  one  of  the  taller  ladders  which  might  reach 
to  the  third  or  fourth  floor.  The  branches  of  the 
trees  were  so  close  that  the  men  found  it  impos 
sible  to  get  this  longer  ladder  into  position.  A 
man  was  sent  up  into  the  tree,  and  he  was  cutting 
away  the  branches,  when  flames  burst  out  of  the 
nearest  window.  A  torrent  of  water  was  at  once 
directed  into  the  window,  while  a  second  stream 
splashed  down  upon  the  tree  and  made  a  watery 


116  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

shield  for  the  fireman,  who  went  on  lopping  off 
the  limbs.  He  labored  swiftly,  but  the  fire  was 
swifter  still.  At  almost  the  same  time  the  flames 
burst  forth  from  three  or  four  other  of  the  lower 
windows. 

Stone  had  been  noting  every  effort  of  the  men 
below.  At  first  he  had  not  been  seen.  But  after 
the  man  had  cut  away  a  few  of  the  branches  of 
the  tree,  two  or  three  of  the  firemen  caught  sight 
of  the  sailor.  They  shouted  to  him,  but  in  the 
roar  of  the  fire  behind  him  arid  below  him  he 
could  not  make  out  their  words.  A  captain  gave 
a  sudden  command,  and  two  men  sprang  forward 
with  short  scaling-ladders,  which  they  succeeded 
in  hooking  to  the  second-story  window  immedi 
ately  below  the  ledge  on  which  he  was  standing. 
Looking  down,  he  could  see  the  heads  of  these 
men  as  they  climbed  the  ladders,  their  bodies 
being  foreshortened  into  invisibility.  The  men 
could  not  get  above  the  second  story,  for  the  fire 
was  gushing  forth  as  though  the  window  were  the 
mouth  of  hell.  The  smoke  rose  black  and  dense, 
enshrouding  Stone. 

He  saw  that  it  was  useless  to  hope  that  they 
could  now  get  a  ladder  up  to  him  ;  the  flames 
would  not  give  them  time.  The  wall  behind  him 
was  becoming  hotter,  and  the  heat  had  broken 
the  glass  of  the  window  of  his  room.  The  fire 
was  creeping  along  the  roof  above  his  head,  and 
every  now  and  again  it  peered  over  the  edge  at 
him,  as  though  seeing  how  far  it  had  still  to  go 


"THE  WALL  BEHIND  HIM  WAS 
COMING  HOTTEK" 


A    MIDSUMMER    MIDNIGHT  117 

before  it  could  grasp  him.  The  smoke  from  be 
low  was  thickening,  and  threatened  to  choke  him. 
Through  its  haze  he  could  see  the  cyclops  eye  of 
the  clock-tower  gloating  over  his  inevitable  fate. 
The  hands  on  the  illuminated  dial  had  slowly 
crept  forward,  and  it  was  now  nearly  twenty  min 
utes  past  twelve. 

Stone  knew  that  his  position  was  untenable  for 
many  seconds  longer.  At  any  moment  the  wall 
might  fall  back  and  bury  him  in  the  blazing  ruins. 
To  remain  was  impossible  ;  and  there  seemed  no 
way  of  escape.  A  crash  shook  the  building,  and 
then  another ;  and  he  guessed  that  two  of  the 
floors  had  fallen  in.  He  slid  along  again  to  the 
end  of  the  narrow  ledge  and  tried  to  peer  around 
the  corner,  in  the  vague  hope  that  there  might 
be  some  possible  means  of  escape.  He  found  that 
he  could  not  twist  his  head  far  enough  to  see  any 
thing  while  his  back  was  flat  against  the  wall. 
To  turn  was  to  risk  a  fall  to  the  pavement  below. 
He  looked  down  fearlessly,  and  calculated  his 
chances  if  he  missed  his  footing.  Immediately 
beneath  him  the  tree  was  taller  than  its  fellows, 
and  its  foliage  was  thicker ;  it  was  barely  possi 
ble  that  the  branches  might  break  his  fall ;  but 
the  chance  was  slim.  The  smoke  poured  heavily 
from  the  window  three  feet  from  him.  He  hesi 
tated  no  longer,  but  turned  slowly  and  steadily. 
His  nerves  were  unshaken,  and  he  executed  the 
mano3uvre  in  safety.  Standing  with  his  face  to 
the  wall — which  rose  sheer  above  him,  and  which 


118  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

gave  him  no  hold  for  his  hands — he  was  able  to 
thrust  out  his  head  sideways  and  to  look  around 
the  corner.  What  he  saw  gave  him  a  thrill  of 
hope. 

His  room  projected  perhaps  a  yard  beyond 
the  main  line  of  the  building,  forming  what 
might  be  termed  a  square  bay-window.  From 
his  position  on  the  narrow  shelf  of  marble,  which 
ran  around  the  front  of  the  hotel  on  every  floor, 
he  thought  he  could  reach  forward  and  touch 
the  main  wall  of  the  building.  And  here  was 
his  one  possible  chance  of  escape.  In  the  corner 
formed  by  the  junction  of  the  projection  and  the 
main  line  there  was  the  leader  which  conducted 
the  rain-water  from  the  roof.  It  was  of  tin  only, 
and  in  the  eyes  of  the  sailor  gazing  at  it  with 
upspringing  hope  it  seemed  frail,  insecurely  fas 
tened,  perhaps  rotten.  But  it  offered  a  chance, 
and  the  only  chance,  of  life,  and  therefore  it  was 
welcome.  Stone  prepared  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

He  gave  a  final  glance  around  before  he  made 
the  irrevocable  move.  He  caught  sight  of  the 
clock,  and  he  saw  that  it  was  twenty -two  min 
utes  after  midnight.  He  reached  forward,  and 
he  found  that  the  space  was  wider  than  he  had 
thought.  It  was  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  only 
that  he  could  touch  the  tin  pipe  ;  it  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  his  grasp.  Yet  to  seize  it  was  the 
one  way  to  the  street  below.  He  did  not  hesi 
tate.  He  stood  on  his  left  foot  on  the  very  end 
of  the  ledge,  with  his  right  foot  dangling  in 


A   MIDSUMMER   MIDNIGHT  H9 

space.  He  made  a  carefully  measured  plunge 
forward,  and  he  griped  the  leader  with  his  left 
hand  and  then  instantly  with  his  right.  It  yield 
ed  under  the  sudden  strain,  but  it  did  not  part. 
With  the  habit  of  a  sailor,  he  clasped  his  legs 
about  it,  and  so  eased  the  pressure.  Then  he  be 
gan  slowly  to  slide  down,  gaining  velocity  as  he 
descended. 

At  every  floor  there  was  a  shelf  of  stone  like 
that  on  which  he  had  stood  outside  his  window, 
and  through  which  the  tin  tube  passed.  Stone 
had  therefore  to  release  his  feet,  and  by  his 
hands  alone  to  cling  to  the  pipe,  which  spread 
from  the  wall  with  the  weight  of  his  body.  Then 
he  clasped  his  legs  again  below  the  ledge  and  let 
go  one  hand  after  the  other.  The  tin  was  broken 
and  jagged  here  and  there,  and  Stone's  flesh  was 
cut  to  the  bone.  But  he  did  not  notice  this  in 
the  tension  of  his  swift  descent. 

When  he  came  to  the  first  floor  and  tried  to 
take  a  fresh  grip  with  his  legs,  he  found  nothing 
to  clasp  with  his  knees.  From  there  to  its  con 
nection  with  the  gutter  the  pipe  went  inside  the 
building.  Stone  hung  from  the  ledge  by  his 
hands,  not  knowing  how  far  he  was  above  the 
sidewalk.  The  smoke  was  pouring  up  from  the 
cellar  grating  beneath  him,  and  in  a  minute  he 
would  have  suffocated.  So  he  let  go. 

The  drop  was  ten  feet  or  more,  and  he  came 
down  on  a  trunk  which  had  been  thrown  out  of  a 
window.  From  this  he  pitched  to  the  sidewalk 


120  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

with  a  broken  leg  and  a  dislocated  shoulder.  He 
was  dimly  conscious  of  being  lifted  gently,  and 
of  a  brief  but  painful  ride.  The  sharp  clang  of 
the  ambulance  bell  lie  felt  as  though  it  were  a 
physical  blow. 

When  he  came  to  himself  again  it  was  morn 
ing,  and  he  was  in  bed  in  a  long  room  with  a  row 
of  cots  on  both  sides  of  it,  under  the  slanting 
sunbeams. 

He  lay  still,  wondering. 

The  occupant  of  the  next  bed  was  unfolding  a 
newspaper,  and  Stone  heard  him  say  to  the  nurse, 
with  an  Alsacian  accent :  "  Ve're  goin'  have  nod- 
der  hot  day  ;  I  vonder  how  dhose  people  yust 
back  from  Paris  on  dhe  Douraine  vill  like  dot  ?" 

(1892.) 


m  ®  1  ®  •  ®  I  ®  ffl  ®  II  ®  Mi  ®  «  ©  «!  *  i»  ® JIL®J!L®J!!S 




n  (oentzai 


>T  was  the  last  Sunday  in  September, 
and  the  blue  sky  arched  above  the 
Park,  clear,  cloudless,  unfathomable. 
The  afternoon  sun  was  hot,  and  high 
overhead.  Now  and  then  a  wandering 
breeze  came  without  warning  and  lingered  only 
for  a  moment,  fluttering  the  broad  leaves  of  the 
aquatic  plants  in  the  fountain  below  the  Terrace. 
At  the  Casino,  on  the  hill  above  the  Mall,  men 
and  women  were  eating  and  drinking,  some  of 
them  inside  the  dingy  and  sprawling  building, 
and  some  of  them  out-doors  at  little  tables  set  in 
curving  lines  under  the  gayly  colored  awnings, 
which  covered  the  broad  walk  bending  away  from 
the  door  of  the  restaurant.  From  the  band 
stand  in  the  thick  of  the  throng  below  came  the 
brassy  staccato  of  a  cornet,  rendering  "  The  Last 
Rose  of  Summer."  Even  the  Ramble  was  full  of 
people  ;  and  the  young  couples,  seeking  seques 
tered  nooks  under  the  russet  trees,  were  often 
forced  to  share  their  benches  with  strangers.  Be 
neath  the  reddening  maples  lonely  men  lounged 
on  the  grass  by  themselves,  or  sat  solitary  and 
silent  in  the  midst  of  chattering  family  groups. 
The  crowd  was  cosmopolitan  and  unhurried. 


124  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

For  the  most  part  it  was  good-natured  and  well- 
to-do.  There  was  not  a  beggar  to  be  seen  ;  there 
was  no  appealing  poverty.  Fathers  of  families 
there  were  in  abundance,  well-fed  and  well-clad, 
with  their  wives  and  with  their  sons'  wives  and 
with  their  sons'  children.  Maids  in  black  dresses 
and  white  aprons  pushed  baby-carriages.  Young 
girls  in  groups  of  three  and  four  giggled  and  gos 
siped.  Young  men  in  couples  leaned  over  the 
bridge  of  the  Lake,  smoking  and  exchanging  opin 
ions.  There  was  a  general  air  of  prosperity  glad 
ly  displaying  itself  in  the  sunshine  ;  the  misery 
and  the  want  and  the  despair  of  the  great  city 
were  left  behind  and  thrust  out  of  mind. 

Two  or  three  yards  after  a  portly  German  with 
a  little  boy  holding  each  of  his  hands  while  a 
third  son  still  younger  rode  ahead  astride  of  his 
father's  solid  cane,  there  came  two  slim  Japanese 
gentlemen,  small  and  sallow,  in  their  neatly  cut 
coats  and  trousers.  A  knot  of  laughing  mulatto- 
girls  followed,  arm  in  arm  ;  they,  too,  seemed  ill- 
dressed  in  the  accepted  costume  of  civilization, 
especially  when  contrasted  with  half  a  dozen  Ital 
ians  who  passed  slowly,  looking  about  them  with 
curious  glances  ;  the  men  in  worn  olive  velveteens 
and  with  gold  rings  in  their  ears,  the  women  with 
bright  colors  in  their  skirts  and  with  embroidery 
on  their  neckerchiefs.  Where  the  foot-path 
touched  the  carriage-drive  there  stood  a  plain  but 
comfortably  plump  Irishwoman,  perhaps  thirty 
years  of  age ;  she  had  a  baby  in  her  arms,  and  a 


a. 


"YOUNG  COUPLES  SEEKING  SEQUESTERED  NOOKS 


A    VISTA   IN   CENTRAL   PARK  125 

little  girl  of  scant  three  held  fast  to  her  patched 
calico  dress ;  with  her  left  hand  she  was  proffer 
ing  a  basket  containing  apples,  bananas,  and 
grapes;  two  other  children,  both  under  six,  played 
about  her  skirts  ;  and  two  more,  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
kept  within  sight  of  her — the  girl,  about  ten  years 
old,  having  a  basket  of  her  own  filled  with  thin 
round  brown  cakes  ;  and  the  boy,  certainly  not 
yet  thirteen,  holding  out  a  wooden  box  packed 
with  rolls  of  lozenges,  put  up  in  red  and  yellow 
and  green  papers.  Now  and  again  the  mother  or 
one  of  the  children  made  a  sale  to  a  pedestrian 
on  his  way  to  the  music.  The  younger  children 
watched,  with  noisy  glee,  the  light  leaps  of  a  gray 
squirrel  bounding  along  over  the  grass  behind  the 
path  and  balancing  himself  with  his  horizontal 
tail. 

The  broad  carriage -drive  was  as  crowded  as 
any  of  the  foot-paths.  Bicyclists  in  white  sweat 
ers  and  black  stockings  toiled  along  in  groups  of 
three  and  four,  bent  forward  over  the  bars  of  their 
machines.  Politicians  with  cigars  in  the  corners 
of  their  mouths  held  in  impatient  trotters.  Park 
omnibuses  heavily  laden  with  women  and  chil 
dren  drew  up  for  an  instant  before  the  Terrace,  and 
then  went  on  again  to  skirt  the  Lake.  Old-fash 
ioned  and  shabby  landaus  lumbered  along  with 
strangers  from  the  hotels.  Now  and  then  there 
came  in  sight  a  hansom  cab  with  a  young  couple 
framed  in  the  front  of  it,  or  a  jolting  dog-cart,  on 
the  high  seat  of  which  a  British  -  looking  young 


126  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

man  was  driving  tandem.  Here  and  there  were 
other  private  carriages — coupes  and  phaetons,  for 
the  most  part,  with  once  and  again  a  four-in-hand 
coach  rumbling  heavily  on  the  firmly  packed 
road. 

A  stylish  victoria  sped  along,  spick  and  span, 
with  its  glistening  harness  and  its  jingling  steel 
chains,  with  its  stalwart  pair  of  iron-gray  step 
pers  and  with  two  men  on  the  box,  correct  and  im 
passive.  Suddenly,  as  it  passed  close  to  the  walk 
at  the  end  of  the  Terrace,  the  coachman  drew  up 
sharply,  pulling  his  horses  back  on  their  haunches 
and  swearing  inaudibly  at  the  plump  Irishwoman 
who  had  dropped  her  basket  of  fruit  just  in  time 
to  rescue  one  of  her  children  from  being  run 
over. 

"It's  more  careful  ye  ought  to  be  !"  cried  the 
mother,  as  she  stood  again  on  the  walk  with  her 
daughter  clasped  to  her  waist. 

"  We  are  very  sorry,  indeed,"  said  the  lady  in 
the  victoria,  leaning  forward.  "  It  was  an  ac 
cident." 

"An  accident,  was  it?"  returned  the  Irishwom 
an.  "  An'  it's  an  accident,  then,  ye  wouldn't  like 
if  it  was  yer  own  children  ye  were  runnin'  over 
like  that." 

The  childless  couple  in  the  carriage  looked  at 
each  other  for  a  moment  only  ;  and  then  the  hus 
band  said,  swiftly,  "  Drive  on,  John  !" 

He  was  a  man  of  fifty,  spare  in  frame  and 
round-shouldered ;  he  had  a  keen  glance,  and  a 


'TWO    SUM    JAPANKSK    GKNTI.KMKN 


A   VISTA   IN    CENTRAL   PAKK  127 

weary  smile  came  and  went  on  his  lips,  not 
bidden  by  his  sparse  gray  moustache.  His  wife 
was  a  woman  of  perhaps  thirty,  tall,  dark,  with 
passionate  eyes  and  a  full  figure. 

She  was  still  leaning  forward,  clinching  the 
side  of  the  carriage  as  it  turned  northward  and 
rolled  along  by  the  side  of  the  Lake.  Her 
voice  showed  that  her  excitement  had  not  sub 
sided,  as  she  faced  her  husband  again  and  said  : 
"John  is  getting  very  careless.  That  is  the 
third  time  this  week  he  has  nearly  run  over  a 
child !" 

"He  has  not  quite  run  over  one  yet.  It  will 
be  time  enough  to  discharge  him  when  he  does," 
her  husband  answered,  calmly.  "That  little  girl 
there  is  none  the  worse  for  her  fright.  She  seemed 
a  pretty  little  thing,  and  she  has  been  saved  to 
grow  up  in  a  tenement-house  and  to  go  to  the 
devil  ten  years  from  now.  So  her  mother  has 
cause  to  be  thankful." 

His  wife  looked  at  him  indignantly.  "I  sup 
pose,"  she  said,  "you  mean  that  it  is  a  pity  that 
John  didn't  run  over  the  child  and  kill  her." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  exactly,"  he  responded. 
"But  perhaps  it  is  true  enough.  Death  is  not 
the  worst  thing  in  this  world,  you  know." 

"You  are  always  talking  of  dying,"  returned 
his  young  wife,  impatiently.  "  I  wonder  you 
don't  commit  suicide." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it,"  he  answered,  looking 
at  her  with  a  tolerant  smile.  "  But  life  amuses 


128  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

me  still — I  have  so  much  curiosity,  you  know. 
But  I  might  do  it,  if  I  were  sure  I  could  have  the 
privilege  of  coming  back  to  see  what  you  will  be 
up  to  when  I'm  gone." 

She  looked  straight  before  her  and  made  no 
answer,  keeping  her  lips  firmly  compressed. 

There  was  a  touch  of  tenderness  in  his  tone  as 
he  went  on,  a  curious  cynical  tenderness,  quite 
characteristic  of  him.  "Don't  let  some  rascal 
marry  you  for  my  money.  That  would  annoy 
me,  I  confess.  And  yet,  I  don't  know  why  I 
should  suggest  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing,  for 
you  will  be  a  most  fascinating  widow." 

She  gazed  ahead  steadily  and  said  nothing,  but 
she  had  joined  her  hands  together,  and  her  fingers 
kept  moving. 

"Still,"  he  continued,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  good  for 
ten  years  more.  We're  a  hardy  stock,  you  know. 
My  father  lived  to  be  eighty,  and  he  was  fifty 
when  I  was  born.  Besides,  you  take  such  good 
care  of  me  always." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  she  took  it 
and  clasped  it  tight  in  both  of  hers,  while  the 
tears  brimmed  her  eyes. 

"  But  perhaps  you  are  letting  me  stay  out  too 
long  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "It  is  balmy,  I 
know,  but  I'm  getting  tired  already." 

"John,"  she  cried,  hastily,  "you  may  turn  now, 
and  go  home." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  lose  this  lovely  September 
afternoon,"  her  husband  declared.  "  Take  me 


UA    KNOT    OF   LAUGHING    MULATTO    GIRLS " 


A    VISTA    IN    CENTUAL    PAKK  129 

home,  and  come  back  to  the  Park  here  for  an 
hour,  while  I  have  a  nap,  if  I  can." 

Just  then  there  was  a  break  in  the  stream  of 
vehicles,  and  the  coachman  took  advantage  of  it 
and  turned  the  horses'  heads  southward.  In  five 
minutes  the  victoria  swerved  to  the  westward, 
leaving  the  Lake  behind,  and  making  for  the 
Riverside  Drive. 

The  Lake  was  gay  with  boats.  Black  gondolas 
with  white  canopies  and  brilliant  American  flags 
were  propelled  adroitly  by  their  standing  boat 
men.  Light  canoes  were  paddled  briskly  in  and 
out  of  the  bays  and  channels,  where  the  ducks 
and  swans  swam  lazily  about.  Young  fellows  in 
their  shirt-sleeves  tugged  inexpertly  at  the  oars 
of  row-boats  laden  down  with  young  women.  By 
regular  and  easy  strokes  the  Park  watermen  rowed 
the  capacious  barges,  with  their  striped  awnings, 
in  the  prescribed  course  around  the  Lake.  The 
oars  flashed  in  the  flickering  sunlight,  and  the 
sunshine  gilded  the  prows  of  the  distant  canoes 
as  they  shot  across  the  vista.  The  yellow  leaves 
of  the  maples  high  on  the  bank  over  the  oppo 
site  shore  fluttered  loosely  away  on  the  doubtful 
breeze,  and  at  last  fell  languidly  into  the  water. 
To  the  west  a  towering  apartment-house  lifted 
itself  aloft  over  the  edge  of  the  Park,  and  seemed 
to  shorten  the  space  between.  To  the  east  the 
gilded  dome  of  a  new  synagogue  rose  over  the 
tree-tops.  Above  all  was  the  blue  concave  of 
the  calm  and  illimitable  sky. 


130  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

When  the  victoria,  with  its  two  men  on  the 
box  and  with  its  pair  of  high-stepping  horses,  re 
turned  to  the  Park,  and  skirted  the  Lake  again, 
and  approached  the  Terrace,  the  lady  sat  in  it 
alone.  As  she  came  in  sight  of  the  Mall  she  bent 
forward,  eagerly  looking  for  the  little  girl  whom 
they  had  almost  run  over  half  an  hour  earlier. 

Near  the  Terrace  she  saw  the  pleasant-faced 
Irishwoman,  with  her  basket  of  fruit  in  one  hand 
and  the  baby  in  the  other  arm;  the  three  little 
children  were  playing  about  their  mother's  feet, 
while  the  elder  boy  and  girl  were  only  a  few 
yards  away. 

The  lonely  woman  in  the  victoria  bade  the 
coachman  draw  up. 

Seeing  the  carriage  stop  at  the  side  of  the  road 
the  Irishwoman  came  forward,  proffering  her 
fruit.  Then  she  recognized  the  lady  and  checked 
her  approach,  hesitating. 

The  handsome  woman  in  the  carriage  smiled, 
and  said,  "  Which  is  the  little  girl  we  almost  ran 
over  ?" 

"  That's  the  one,"  answered  the  mother,  indi 
cating  the  slip  of  a  child  who  was  now  clasping 
the  edge  of  the  fruit-basket  while  staring  at  the 
strange  lady  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  What  a  pretty  child  she  is  !"  said  the  lady. 
"  I  hope  she  is  none  the  worse  for  her  fright  ?" 

"Ye  didn't  break  any  bones,  if  that's  what  ye 
mean,"  the  mother  responded. 

"  And  how  old  is  she  ?"  was  the  next  question. 


A  VISTA    IN    CENTRAL    PARK  131 

"She'll  be  three  years  old  come  Christmas," 
was  the  answer. 

The  lady  in  the  carriage  felt  in  her  pocket,  and 
brought  out  her  purse  and  looked  through  it. 

"  Here,"  she  said  at  last,  as  she  took  out  a  five- 
dollar  gold-piece  ;  "  here  is  something  I  wish  you 
would  give  her  on  Christmas  morning  as  a  pres 
ent  from  me.  Will  you  ?" 

"  I  will  that,"  the  mother  replied,  taking  the 
money,  "and  gladly  too.  It's  richer  than  her 
sisters  she'll  be  now." 

"  How  many  children  have  you  ?"  the  lady  in 
quired. 

"  Six  ;  thank  ye,  ma'am,  for  askin',"  was  the  re 
sponse,  "  an'  all  well  and  hearty." 

"  Six  ?"  echoed  the  woman  in  the  victoria,  with 
a  hungry  gleam  in  her  eyes.  "  You  have  six 
children  ?" 

"  It's  six  I  have,"  the  mother  answered  ;  "  and 
it's  a  fine  lot  they  are  altogether,  though  I  say  it 
that  shouldn't." 

The  lady  put  her  hand  in  her  purse  again. 

"  Buy  something  with  this  for  the  others,"  she 
said,  placing  a  bank-note  in  the  Irishwoman's 
hands.  Then  she  raised  her  voice  and  added, 
"You  may  drive  on,  John  !" 

As  the  victoria  rolled  away  to  the  westward 
the  fruit-vender  courtesied,  and  the  children  all 
looked  after  the  carriage  with  interest. 

"  That  lady  must  be  very  rich,"  said  the  eldest 
boy,  the  one  who  had  the  lozenges  for  sale.  "  I 


132  VIGNETTES    OP   MANHATTAN 

shouldn't  wonder  if  she  had  two  millions  of  dol 
lars  I" 

"  She  must  be  very  happy,"  the  eldest  girl  add 
ed.  "I  suppose  she  can  have  ice-cream  every 
day,  and  go  to  the  Seaside  Home  for  two  weeks 
whenever  she  wants." 

"  It's  a  kind  heart  she  has  anyway,  for  all  her 
money,"  was  the  mother's  comment,  as  she  un 
folded  the  bank-note  and  saw  the  X  in  the  corner 
of  it. 

Meanwhile  the  lady  in  the  victoria  was  eaten 
with  bitter  thoughts  as  the  carriage  rattled  along 
in  the  brilliant  sunshine  beneath  the  unclouded 
sky. 

"Six  children!"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 
"  That  Irishwoman  has  six  children  !  Why  is  it 
that  some  women  have  so  much  luck?" 

(1893.) 


^ 


m  «  in  9  111  » 


&peecfi   of  the   &>veninc/ 


i  HE  more  immaterial  part  of  the  ban 
quet  was  about  to  begin.  The  guests 
had  made  an  end  of  eating,  and  the 
waiters  were  filling  the  small  cups 
with  black  coffee,  and  passing  boxes 
of  cigars  and  cigarettes.  At  the  five  long  tables 
which  gridironed  the  great  room  the  hum  of 
conversation  rose  higher  and  higher  ;  while  at 
the  shorter  table,  raised  on  the  platform  at  the 
western  end  of  the  hall,  there  was  almost  silence, 
as  the  men  who  were  to  make  speeches  saw  the 
oratorical  moment  approaching.  The  musicians, 
hidden  behind  a  screen  of  greenery,  were  playing 
a  medley  of  the  latest  popular  airs  ;  and  here  and 
there,  at  the  tables  below,  a  little  group  of  the 
diners  now  and  again  took  up  a  chorus,  with  in 
termittent  energy,  to  the  amusement  of  the  ladies 
who  were  arriving  and  filling  rapidly  the  broad 
boxes  in  the  galleries. 

The  organizers  of  the  dinner  had  felt  that  it 
was  a  great  occasion,  and  they  had  sought  to 
make  it  memorable  artistically.  The  severe  white 
of  the  beautifully  proportioned  concert-hall  was 
relieved  by  foliage  plants,  massed  and  scattered 
with  a  delicate  understanding  of  decorative  ef- 


136  VIGNETTES   OF    MANHATTAN 

feet ;  against  the  absolutely  colorless  walls,  with 
their  carved  caryatides,  were  palms  in  pots ; 
gayly  colored  silken  banners  floated  down  from 
the  ceiling  ;  and  everywhere,  on  the  ceiling  and 
the  walls  and  the  balconies  and  the  platforms,  the 
electric  lights  glowed  and  twinkled,  illuminating 
the  lofty  hall  with  steady  brilliancy. 

Near  the  eastern  end  of  one  of  the  long  tables 
there  sat  a  young  man — at  least,  he  was  barely 
thirty.  He  was  so  placed  that  he  had  before  him 
the  whole  scene.  He  had  an  uninterrupted  view 
of  the  raised  table,  where  the  speakers  were  ab 
sorbed  in  self  -  communion.  He  commanded  the 
entrance  to  the  gallery  opposite,  and  he  could  see 
the  ladies  as  they  arrived  in  little  groups,  eager 
for  the  unwonted  pleasure  of  attendance  at  a 
great  public  dinner.  He  could  hear  the  feminine 
chatter  rising  shrill  above  the  masculine  babble 
below.  He  gazed  at  the  boxes  curiously,  as 
though  he  did  not  know  any  of  the  ladies  in 
them  ;  and  he  remained  quiet  while  the  diners 
about  him  at  that  end  of  the  table  exchanged 
salutations  with  the  occupants  of  one  box  or  an 
other.  Apparently  he  had  few  if  any  acquaint 
ances  even  on  the  floor  of  the  hall,  the  men  on 
each  side  of  him  being  generally  engaged  in  con 
versation  with  their  neighbors. 

Seemingly  his  solitude  was  lightly  borne,  and 
he  found  solace  for  it  in  amused  observation  of 
the  gathering.  He  lighted  his  own  cigar,  and 
was  soon  helping  to  make  the  blue  haze  which 


THE    SPEECH    OF    THE    EVENING  137 

hung  over  the  tables,  rising  in  time  almost  to  the 
level  of  the  boxes  in  the  long  balconies. 

Yet  he  was  not  averse  to  conversation,  and 
when  his  right-hand  neighbor  turned  back  to  pick 
up  a  fresh  cigarette,  he  took  occasion  to  say,  "  It 
isn't  usual  to  let  ladies  in  at  dinners  here  in  New 
York, is  it?" 

"  No,"  his  right-hand  neighbor  responded,  with 
a  slight  but  obvious  German  accent,  "I  don't 
think  it  is.  I've  been  lifing  in  New  York  for  a 
long  vile  now — 'most  eleven  years — and  I  never 
saw  it  before." 

Then  the  right-hand  neighbor,  having  lighted 
his  cigarette,  sat  back  in  his  chair  again  and  re 
sumed  his  interrupted  talk  with  the  man  on  the 
other  side  of  him. 

The  young  man  who  was  apparently  a  stranger 
was  allowed  to  keep  silence  only  for  a  minute  or 
two,  however,  as  his  left-hand  neighbor,  to  whom 
he  had  hardly  spoken  during  the  dinner,  now 
engaged  him  in  conversation. 

"I  thought  it  was  about  time  they  did  that," 
said  the  neighbor,  indicating  the  waiters  who  were 
removing  the  potted  orange-trees  and  the  sugar- 
trophies  from  the  upper  table.  "  Now  we  can 
see  who's  who." 

"I  suppose  those  are  the  more  distinguished 
guests  ?"  the  young  man  suggested. 

"Most  of  the  men  who  are  going  to  make 
speeches  are  up  there,"  the  neighbor  responded. 
"  Hello,  hello  !  there's  Alexander  Macgregor  down 


138  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

at  that  end  there,  the  one  with  the  full  red  beard. 
He's  the  President  of  the  St.  Andrew's  Society. 
He's  a  first-rate  American,  too,  for  all  he  was  born 
in  Edinburgh.  You  know,  he's  the  man  they 
call  the  *  Star-spangled  Scotchman.'  " 

"And  who  is  that  clean-shaved,  clean-looking, 
fair-haired  man  next  to  him  ?"  asked  the  young 
man. 

"That?"  the  neighbor  replied,  "that's  — oh,  I 
forget  his  name — but  he's  the  President  of  the  St. 
George's  Society,  I  think.  He's  an  Englishman — 
that  is,  he  was  ;  I  suppose  he's  been  naturalized — 
but  then  you  can  never  tell  about  Englishmen, 
can  you  ?  They  will  live  in  a  place  for  years, 
and  they  will  be  Britons  to  the  backbone  all  the 
time." 

"  Who  is  the  presiding  officer  ?"  was  the  next 
question. 

"Don't  you  know  him?"  the  neighbor  retort 
ed.  "Why,  that's  Crowninshield  Eliot,  the  law 
yer.  He  used  to  be  President  of  the  New  Eng 
land  Society.  He's  a  clever  man  and  he  makes 
a  rattling  good  speech  sometimes,  but  then  he's 
mighty  uncertain.  He  may  speak  well  or  he 
may  make  a  bad  break.  A  speech  from  him  is  a 
regular  grab-bag — you  never  know  what  you  are 
going  to  have.  But  things  don't  get  rusty  when 
he  is  around,  I  tell  you.  You  can  rely  on  him  to 
wake  all  the  other  speakers  up.  And  I  guess  we 
shall  have  some  fun  before  we  get  through  ;  it 
isn't  often  you  see  so  many  representative  New- 


THE    SPEECH    OF   THE    EVENING  139 

Yorkers  together  ;  it's  really  a  typical  gather- 
ing." 

The  young  man  made  no  response  to  this,  be 
ing  for  the  moment  busy  with  his  own  ironic 
thoughts. 

"Now  there's  a  man  who  will  make  the  fur 
fly  if  he  gets  a  chance,"  continued  the  loquacious 
neighbor,  "  that  tall,  thin,  dignified-looking  man, 
with  the  black  goatee  and  mustache  ;  that's  Colo 
nel  Fairfax.  He's  Secretary  of  the  Southern  So 
ciety — all  rebels,  you  know,  but  reconstructed  by 
this  time,  most  of  them.  He's  District  Attorney 
for  the  second  term  now,  and  you  ought  to  hear 
him  talk  to  a  jury.  He  could  get  a  verdict  against 
the  angel  Gabriel  for  stealing  the  silver  trumpet. 
When  I  was  on  the  grand  jury  last  year  he — " 

Here  the  young  man's  neighbor  interrupted 
himself  to  say,  "Hello,  hello  !  that  is  odd,  isn't  it? 
Right  next  to  Colonel  Fairfax  is  the  man  who 
was  foreman  of  our  grand  jury  ;  I  didn't  catch 
sight  of  him  till  that  waiter  took  away  that  candy 
Statue  of  Liberty.  See  him  ?  The  bald  one  with 
the  scar  on  his  jaw  ;  it's  a  bullet  wound  he  got 
at  Shiloh.  That's  S.  Colfax  Morrison ;  he  was 
major  of  the  200th  Ohio,  but  he's  been  living  in 
New  York  for  ten  years  now  at  least.  That's  *  the 
Ohio  idea '  they  talk  about  :  to  come  to  New 
York  to  live  as  soon  as  they  can.  I  was  born  in 
Ohio  myself." 

And  the  talker  let  his  loquacity  taper  off  into  a 
laugh,  in  which  the  young  man  joined  courteously. 


140  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

There  was  a  sudden  diminution  of  the  roar  of 
talk  as  the  gentleman  sitting  in  the  middle  of 
the  raised  table  rose  to  his  feet  and  rapped  for 
silence.  Even  in  the  boxes,  now  filled  to  over 
flowing  with  ladies,  the  chatter  ceased  as  the  man 
who  had  been  selected  to  preside  over  the  dinner 
began  his  remarks  by  recalling  the  event  they  had 
met  to  commemorate.  In  felicitous  phrases  and 
with  neatly  turned  strokes  of  humor  he  declared 
the  reason  why  they  were  assembled  together. 
And  when  he  had  made  an  end  of  this,  he  an 
nounced  that  the  first  toast  of  the  evening  would 
be  "  New  York,  the  Empire  City,  sitting  at  the 
gates  of  commerce,  and  holding  the  highways  of 
trade." 

There  was  a  burst  of  applause  and  a  pushing 
back  of  chairs  as  all  the  guests  rose  with  their 
glasses  in  their  hands. 

Then  the  presiding  officer  prepared  to  intro 
duce  the  speaker  who  was  to  make  the  response 
to  this  important  toast. 

"I  saw  only  this  morning,"  he  began  again, 
"the  report  of  some  remarks  made  by  a  Senator 
from  Nevada,  in  which  New  York  was  called  a 
'city  of  kites  and  crows.'  There  are  Congress 
men  who  cannot  open  their  mouths  without 
disseminating  miscellaneous  misinformation ;  and 
the  only  appropriate  retort  would  be  with  the 
plain-spoken  bowie  of  the  mining-camp  or  with 
the  unambiguous  derringer  of  Nevada.  No  ad 
equate  answer  is  possible  in  the  sterilized  vocab- 


THE    SPEECH    OF   THE    EVENING  141 

ulary  permitted  to  us  by  the  conventions  of  mod 
ern  society.  And  yet  it  is  well  that  once  in  a 
while  New  York  should  assert  herself — that  she 
should  celebrate  herself  —  that  she  should  rest 
from  her  mighty  labors,  if  only  for  a  moment,  to 
contemplate  her  own  great  work.  We  are  fortu 
nate  in  having  with  us  here  to-night  a  man  who 
can  do  justice  to  this  imposing  theme,  a  man  who 
loves  New  York  as  we  all  love  her,  who  is  proud 
of  New  York  as  we  are  all  proud  of  her — a  man 
whom  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  introduce  to  an 
assembly  of  New-Yorkers.  Works  of  supereroga 
tion  are  discountenanced,  and  who  is  there  here 
who  does  not  know  Horace  Chauncy  ?" 

As  the  chairman  ceased  the  gentleman  who  had 
been  sitting  at  his  right  rose,  and  immediately 
there  was  great  applause  from  all  parts  of  the 
hall.  Men  clapped  their  hands  and  rapped  upon 
the  table  with  the  handles  of  their  fruit-knives. 
Even  the  ladies  in  the  boxes  waved  their  hand 
kerchiefs. 

Then,  as  the  chairman,  having  done  his  duty, 
took  his  seat,  there  was  the  customary  hum  of  an 
ticipated  enjoyment,  dying  away  swiftly  as  Mr. 
Chauncy  prepared  to  speak. 

The  left-hand  neighbor  of  the  young  man  down 
at  the  far  end  of  the  long  table  turned  to  him 
again,  and  said,  "  Now  you  keep  your  eyes  open. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this  was  the  speech  of  the 
evening." 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  new  speaker  and 


142  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

liked  his  face,  at  once  masterful  and  intelligent. 
Mr.  Chauncy's  attitude  was  one  of  conscious 
strength  and  of  perfect  ease.  He  was  a  man  of 
fifty,  perhaps,  with  gray  hair  and  a  curling  gray 
mustache. 

"  Upon  a  mellow  October  night  like  this,"  the 
speaker  began,  and  his  voice  was  rich  and  firm, 
while  his  delivery  was  as  clear  as  a  line  en 
graving —  "upon  a  mellow  October  night  like 
this,  possible  in  no  other  city  in  this  country  or 
in  Europe,  I  think,  and  illustrative  of  the  fact  that 
here  in  New  York  we  have  really  a  climate,  while 
most  of  the  other  great  towns  of  the  world  have 
only  weather — upon  a  night  like  this,  and  under 
this  graceful  tower,  uplifting  its  loveliness  into 
the  azure  air  and  topped  by  a  Diana  fairer  than  that 
of  the  Ephesians  smiling  down  upon  gardens  more 
beautiful  than  any  ever  hanging  in  Babylon,  there 
is  no  need  for  me  to  present  any  defence  of  the 
Empire  City,  or  to  proffer  any  apology  for  her. 
If  you  seek  for  proof  of  her  superiority,  look 
about  you  here  to-night,  and  remember  that  no 
where  else  in  the  United  States  could  any  such 
company  as  this  be  gathered  together ;  nowhere 
else  in  the  United  States  is  there  a  banquet-hall 
so  beautiful  ;  nowhere  else  in  the  United  States 
would  a  feast  like  this  be  graced  by  the  presence 
of  so  many  lovely  women.  Yet  I  feel  that  I 
should  be  derelict  to  my  duty — that  I  should  let 
slip  a  precious  occasion — if  I  did  not  dwell  for  a 
while  upon  a  few  of  the  many  things  in  the  his- 


"  '  NOWHERE   ELSE    WOULD    A    FEAST   LIKE    THIS    BE    GRACED    BY    SO   MANY 
LOVELY  WOMEN  '  " 


THE    SPEECH    OF    THE    EVENING  143 

tory  of  this  city  which  give  her  proud  pre-emi 
nence;  which  make  her  what  she  is — the  mighty 
and  magnificent  metropolis  of  a  great  people." 

Again  the  applause  broke  forth.  After  a  pause 
the  speaker  continued,  having  the  attention  of 
every  man  and  woman  in  the  hall.  Even  as  he 
warmed  to  his  subject  he  preserved  the  perfec 
tion  of  his  delivery,  and  he  poured  forth  facts, 
figures,  illustrations,  one  after  the  other,  with  nev 
er  a  broken  accent  or  a  blurred  syllable. 

"I  will  not  detain  you  by  detailing  the  many 
natural  advantages  of  New  York — the  noble  river 
which  sweeps  by  on  one  side  and  the  arm  of  the 
ocean  which  embraces  the  other,  and  the  spacious 
and  beautiful  bay,  with  its  harborage  ample  for 
all  the  fleets  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  It 
is  not  my  purpose  to-night  to  linger  long  over 
the  works  of  art  which  make  this  island  of  ours 
distinguished  as  the  works  of  nature  have  made 
possible  her  prosperity;  and  therefore  I  shall  say 
nothing  of  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  of  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge,  of  the  Riverside  Drive,  of  the  libraries 
and  the  museums  and  the  colleges  and  the  church 
es  ;  I  shall  even  say  nothing  of  Central  Park,  truly 
the  finest  single  work  of  art  yet  produced  by  any 
American,  and,  simply  as  a  work  of  art,  unequalled 
by  any  pleasure-ground  of  Europe." 

There  was  another  burst  of  applause,  but  the 
speaker  scarcely  waited  for  it  to  die  down  before 
he  began  again. 

"Passing  by  these  works  of  God  and  man,  ever 


144  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

present  before  our  eyes,  I  am  going  to  call  your 
attention  to  things  less  material — to  things  which 
do  not  cling  to  our  remembrance  as  they  ought. 
Secure  in  our  material  prosperity,  we  New-York 
ers  do  not  always  recall  those  incidents  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  city  which  deserve  to  be  forever  mem 
orable.  We  are  not  often  accused  of  modesty — 
but  we  are  over-modest,  are  we  not  ? — when  we 
allow  our  children  to  be  taught  that  the  first 
bloodshed  of  the  Revolution  was  in  the  Boston 
Massacre,  forgetting  that  the  Liberty  Pole  fight 
took  place  in  New  York  six  weeks  earlier.  It  was 
here  in  New  York  that  the  Stamp  Act  Congress 
met,  the  forerunner  of  the  federation  of  the  Amer 
ican  colonies  which  cast  off  the  British  yoke.  And 
in  the  long  and  weary  war  of  the  Revolution  only 
one  of  the  thirteen  colonies  furnished  its  full  quo 
ta  of  men,  money,  and  supplies — and  that  colony 
was  the  colony  of  New  York  !" 

Once  more  was  the  speaker  interrupted  by  a 
tumult  of  approval ;  and  once  more  he  went  on 
again  as  soon  as  he  could  make  himself  heard. 

"  When  the  critical  period  in  the  history  of  this 
country  came  —  that  is,  when  the  need  of  a  new 
constitution  was  felt  by  all — no  men  had  a  larger 
share  in  the  making  of  that  constitution  than  two 
New-Yorkers,  Alexander  Hamilton  and  John  Jay, 
while  the  nervous  English  of  that  great  instru 
ment  was  due  to  a  third  New-Yorker,  Gouver- 
neur  Morris.  It  was  in  New  York  that  the  founda 
tions  of  American  literature  were  laid,  by  the  pub- 


THE    SPEECH    OF    THE    EVENING  145 

lication  of  Knickerbockers  History  y  the  earliest 
book  to  be  printed  in  America  which  keeps  its 
popularity  to-day  —  and  more  than  fourscore 
years  have  not  yet  tarnished  its  humor.  To  the 
author  of  this  immortal  book,  to  Washington  Ir 
ving,  was  due  the  first  work  of  American  author 
ship  which  won  acceptance  outside  of  the  boun 
daries  of  the  United  States.  And  as  it  was  the 
Sketch- Book  of  Washington  Irving  which  was 
the  first  American  book  to  win  its  way  in  Eng 
land,  so  it  was  the  Spy  of  another  citizen  of 
New  York,  Fenimore  Cooper,  which  was  the  first 
American  book  to  achieve  fame  outside  of  the 
English  language.  It  was  here  in  New  York  that 
our  American  literature  was  first  fostered,  as  it  is 
here  in  New  York  that  our  American  authors  are 
most  abundant,  most  highly  honored,  and  most 
richly  rewarded." 

The  speaker  paused  again,  but  only  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"As  in  letters,  so  in  the  arts.  Here  in  New 
York  the  National  Academy  of  Design  was 
founded,  and  later  the  Society  of  American  Art 
ists  ;  and  to  two  painters  of  New  York,  to  Robert 
Fulton  and  to  Samuel  F.  B.  Morse,  we  owe  the 
steamboat  and  the  telegraph.  Here  in  New  York 
was  founded  the  Children's  Aid  Society — than 
which  no  city  in  the  world  has  a  nobler  charity — 
the  first  of  the  kind  and  the  most  successful. 
Here  in  New  York,  also,  Peter  Cooper  established 

the  first  institution  intended  to  provide  instruc- 
10 


146  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

tion  to  all  ambitions  youth — an  institution  that 
has  been  imitated  in  almost  every  city  of  the 
Union,  although  no  city  of  the  Union  has  ever 
had  a  citizen  more  esteemed  or  better  beloved 
than  was  Peter  Cooper  here  in  New  York.  It  is 
not  in  'a  city  of  kites  and  crows'  that  men  of 
Peter  Cooper's  character  choose  to  dwell ;  it  is 
not  in  '  a  city  of  kites  and  crows '  that  men  of 
Peter  Cooper's  character  are  cherished  and  re 
vered." 

Here  the  speech  was  again  broken  into  by  pro 
longed  applause.  Men  rose  to  their  feet  and 
cheered,  waving  their  napkins  over  their  heads. 

When  there  was  quiet  once  more  the  speaker 
went  on : 

"After  years  of  peace  and  of  prosperity,  the 
people  of  the  United  States  suddenly  found  them 
selves  face  to  face  with  armed  rebellion,  and  war 
loomed  before  us  inevitable.  New  York  was 
ready  then  as  always.  The  first  regiment  to 
reach  the  capital  of  the  country — to  secure  it 
against  traitors — was  a  regiment  of  New  York 
City  militia.  Nor  was  there  ever  after  any  lack 
of  men  here  in  this  city  who  despised  the  snares 
of  death  and  defied  the  pains  of  hell,  and  who 
went  into  battle  bravely,  and  gayly,  and  glad  that 
— in  the  words  of  one  of  them — glad  that  '  there 
is  lots  of  good  fighting  along  the  whole  line.' 
I  have  been  told — I  confess  I  have  not  been  able 
to  verify  the  figures — but  I  have  been  told,  that 
the  number  of  men  who  enlisted  into  the  army 


THE    SPEECH    OF    THE    EVENING  147 

and  the  navy  of  the  United  States  from  this  city 
of  ours  during  those  four  long  years  of  doubt 
and  anxiety  exceeded  the  number  of  the  male 
inhabitants  of  fighting  age  in  the  year  when  the 
rebellion  broke  out.  And  not  content  with  fur 
nishing  men  to  fight,  the  city  of  New  York  saw 
to  it  that  the  wounded  were  duly  attended  to  and 
their  anguish  lightened  as  far  as  might  be — for  it 
was  here  that  the  United  States  Sanitary  Commis 
sion  was  organized." 

There  where  cheers  once  more  and  yet  again, 
and  it  was  not  for  a  full  minute  that  the  speaker 
was  enabled  to  continue. 

"Your  applause  tells  me  that  I  need  say  no 
more,"  he  began.  "  A  successful  city  is  the  spoiled 
child  of  fortune,  and  perhaps,  like  other  spoiled 
children,  it  is  all  the  better  for  a  sound  thrashing 
now  and  then.  But  what  has  New  York  done 
amiss  now,  that  she  should  be  scourged  with  scor 
pions?  In  the  welter  of  politics  it  may  be  con 
sidered  adroit  to  suggest  that  your  opponent  is 
either  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  or  an  ass  in  a 
lion's  skin  ;  but  it  is  more  adroit  still,  it  seems  to 
me,  to  avoid  personality  altogether.  The  louder 
the  report  of  the  gun,  the  more  violent  the  kick 
is.  When  a  New-Yorker  hears  his  beloved  town 
called  '  a  city  of  kites  and  crows  '  his  first  impulse 
is  to  laugh  ;  his  second  is  to  inquire  as  to  the  man 
who  said  it ;  and  his  third  is  to  laugh  again  and 
louder  when  he  discovers  that  the  author  of  this 
assertion  is  from  Nevada,  a  state  where  even 


148  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

Santa  Glaus  on  Christmas  Eve  does  not  dare  go 
his  rounds  for  fear  of  being  held  up  by  road- 
agents  !" 

This  time  a  burst  of  hearty  laughter  mingled 
with  the  abundant  applause  as  the  speaker  sat 
down. 

"  That's  a  very  good  speech,"  the  young  man 
who  seemed  to  be  a  stranger  said  to  his  left-hand 
neighbor. 

"  Good  speech  ?"  echoed  the  other  enthusiasti 
cally;  "I  should  think  so.  It's  the  speech  of  the 
evening,  sure  !  There's  not  one  of  them  can  beat 
that." 

"I've  been  in  Japan  for  the  past  five  years, 
and  I  seem  to  have  lost  track  of  people  here  in 
the  city,"  said  the  young  man.  "  What  is  the 
name  of  the  gentleman  who  made  the  speech?" 

"  Horace  Chauncy,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  thought 
everybody  knew  him.  His  father  was  United 
States  Senator  from  West  Virginia,  and  his  moth 
er  was  a  famous  Kentucky  belle  in  her  day.  He 
himself  used  to  be  the  leader  of  the  California 
bar  before  he  moved  here  a  few  years  ago.  He 
caught  on  at  once  in  New  York ;  he's  one  of  the 
most  popular  speakers  we  have  now;  some  fellows 
call  him  { Our  Horace.'  Haven't  you  ever  heard 
about  him,  really?" 

"Well,"  the  young  man  retorted,  "you  mustn't 
expect  me  to  know  all  these  people.  You  see,  I 
was  born  in  New  York." 

(1894.) 


ra  ©  i  @  i  ®  BI  ®  m  ®  i  ®  tii  ®  n  ®  111  ®  HI  ®  HI  ®  '"  ®  "'. 


Jji 


nner- 


iHANKSGIVING  DAY  had  dawned 
clear  and  cold,  an  ideal  day  for  the 
foot-ball  game.  Soon  after  breakfast 
the  side -streets  had  been  made  hid 
eous  by  small  bands  of  boys,  strange 
ly  disguised  as  girls  some  of  them,  or  as  Indians 
and  as  negroes,  with  improvised  costumes  and 
with  staring  masks  ;  they  blew  fish-horns,  and  be 
sought  coppers.  A  little  later  in  the  day  groups 
of  fantasticals  paraded  on  horseback  or  in  car 
riages  ;  and  straggling  target  companies  —  some 
of  them  in  the  uniforms  worn  during  the  polit 
ical  campaign  which  had  culminated  in  the  elec 
tion  three  weeks  earlier — marched  irregularly  up 
the  avenues  under  the  elevated  railroads,  preceded 
by  thin  lines  of  pioneers,  and  by  slim  bands  of 
music  that  played  spasmodically  before  the  many 
adjacent  saloons,  at  the  doors  of  which  the  com 
panies  came  to  a  halt  willingly. 

The  sun  shone  out  and  warmed  one  side  of  the 
street  as  people  came  from  church  ;  and  the  wind 
blew  gently  down  the  avenues,  and  fluttered  the 
petals  of  the  yellow  chrysanthemums  which  ex 
panded  themselves  in  many  button-holes.  Little 
groups  of  young  people  passed,  the  girls  with 


152  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

knots  of  blue  at  their  throats  or  with  mufflers  of 
orange  and  black,  the  young  men  with  college- 
buttons  or  with  protruding  handkerchiefs  of  the 
college  colors.  The  fashionable  dealers  in  men's 
goods  had  arranged  their  windows  with  impartial 
regard  for  future  custom — one  with  blue  flannels 
and  scarfs,  shirts  and  socks,  and  the  other  all  or 
ange  and  black.  Coaches  began  to  go  by,  draped 
witli  one  set  of  colors  or  the  other,  and  filled  with 
young  men  who  split  the  air  with  explosive  cheers, 
while  waving  blue  pennants  with  white  letters, 
or  yellow  pennants  with  black.  The  sun  shone 
brightly,  and  the  brisk  breeze  shivered  the  bare 
branches  of  the  trees.  It  rippled  the  flags  which 
projected  from  the  vehicles  gathering  at  Madison 
Square  and  streaming  up  the  avenue  in  thick  suc 
cession  —  coaches,  private  carriages,  omnibuses, 
road-wagons  of  one  kind  or  another. 

Towards  nightfall  the  tide  turned  and  the 
coaches  began  to  come  back,  the  young  men 
hoarse  with  incessant  shouting  of  their  stacca 
to  college  cries.  Some  of  them,  wild  with  joy 
at  the  victory  of  their  own  team,  had  voice  still 
for  exulting  yells.  Others  were  saddened  into 
silence  by  the  defeat  of  their  side.  Most  of  those 
who  had  gone  out  to  see  the  game  belonged  nei' 
ther  to  the  college  of  the  blue  nor  to  the  college 
of  the  black  and  orange,  but  they  were  all  stimu 
lated  by  the  struggle  they  had  just  seen — a  strup: 
gle  of  strength  and  of  skill,  of  gumption  and  of 
grit.  The  sun  had  gone  down  at  last,  and  the 


COMING   FROM    CHURCH 


A   THANKSGIVING-DAY    DINNER  153 

bracing  breeze  of  noon  had  now  a  touch  of  damp 
ness  which  chilled  the  flesh.  But  the  hearty  young 
fellows  paid  no  heed  to  it ;  they  cheered  and  they 
sang  and  they  cried  aloud  one  to  the  other  as 
though  the  season  were  spring,  and  they  were 
alone  on  the  sea-shore. 

Robert  White  caught  the  fever  like  the  rest, 
and  as  he  walked  down  the  avenue  to  the  College 
Club  he  was  conscious  of  an  excitement  he  had 
not  felt  for  years.  He  was  alone  in  the  city  for 
a  week,  as  it  happened,  his  wife  having  taken  the 
children  into  the  country  for  a  long-promised  visit; 
and  he  had  been  spending  his  evenings  at  the  Col 
lege  Club.  So  it  was  that  he  had  joined  in  char 
tering  a  coach,  and  for  the  first  time  in  a  dozen 
years  he  had  seen  the  foot-ball  game.  He  had 
been  made  happy  by  the  success  of  his  own  col 
lege,  and  by  meeting  classmates  whom  he  had  not 
laid  eyes  on  since  their  Commencement  in  the  heat 
of  the  Centennial  summer.  One  of  them  was  now 
the  young  governor  of  a  new  Western  State,  and 
another  was  likely  to  be  a  member  of  the  new 
President's  cabinet. 

On  the  way  out  to  the  game  White  had  sat  be 
side  a  third  classmate,  now  a  professor  in  the  old 
college,  and  they  had  talked  over  their  four  years 
and  their  fellow -students.  They  recalled  the 
young  men  of  promise  who  had  failed  to  sustain 
the  hopes  of  the  class  ;  the  steady,  hard-working 
fellows,  who  were  steady  and  hard-working  still; 
the  quiet,  shy  man  who  had  known  little  Latin 


154  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

and  less  Greek,  but  was  fond  of  science,  and  who 
was  now  developing  into  one  of  the  foremost  nov 
elists  of  the  country;  the  best  base-ball  player  of 
the  class,  now  the  pastor  of  one  of  the  leading 
churches  of  Chicago;  and  others  who  had  done 
well  for  themselves  in  the  different  walks  of  life. 
They  talked  over  the  black  sheep  of  the  class — 
some  dead,  some  worse  than  dead,  some  dropped 
out  of  sight. 

"  What  has  become  of  Johnny  Carroll  ?"  asked 
the  professor. 

"I  have  not  seen  him  since  class-day.  There 
was  some  wretched  scandal  before  Commence 
ment,  you  know,  and  I  doubt  if  Johnny  ever  got 
his  degree,"  White  answered. 

"I  know  he  didn't,"  the  professor  returned. 
"  He  never  dared  to  apply  for  it." 

"  They  managed  to  keep  the  trouble  very  quiet, 
whatever  it  was,"  White  went  on.  "  I  never  knew 
just  what  the  facts  were." 

"I  didn't  know  then,"  responded  the  professor; 
"  I  have  been  told  since.  But  there  is  no  need  to 
go  into  that  now.  The  girl  is  dead  long  ago,  and 
Johnny  too,  for  all  I  have  heard." 

"Poor  Johnny  Carroll,"  White  said;  "I  can  re 
member  how  handsome  he  looked  that  last  night, 
the  night  of  class-day.  But  he  was  always  hand 
some  and  always  well  dressed.  He  was  not  very 
clever  or  very  anything,  was  he  ?  Yet  we  all  liked 
him." 

"  I  remember  that  he  tried  to  get  on  the  Fresh- 


A   THANKSGIVING-DAY    DINNER  155 

man  crew,"  the  professor  remarked,  after  a  pause, 
"but  the  temptations  of  high  living  were  too 
much  for  him.  He  wouldn't  train." 

"Training  was  just  what  he  needed  most," 
"White  added;  "  moral  and  mental  as  well  as  phys 
ical.  Fact  is,  he  always  had  more  money  than  was 
good  for  him.  His  father  was  in  Wall  Street 
then,  and  making  money  hand  over  fist." 

"It  wasn't  till  the  year  after  we  were  gradu 
ated  that  old  Carroll  committed  suicide,  was  it  ?" 
the  professor  inquired.  "  Blew  out  his  brains  in 
the  bath-tub,  didn't  he  ?" 

"And  didn't  leave  enough  money  to  pay  for  his 
funeral,"  White  answered.  "  Johnny  was  in  hard 
luck  always:  he  had  too  much  money  at  first,  and 
none  at  all  when  he  needed  it  most." 

"His  great  misfortune,"  said  the  professor, 
"  was  that  his  father  was  ( one  of  the  boys.' " 

"  Yes,"  White  agreed,  "  that  is  pretty  rough  on 
a  fellow.  I  wonder  where  Johnny  is,  if  he  is  alive  ? 
Out'West,  perhaps,  prospecting  on  a  grub  stake, 
or  else  stoker  on  an  ocean  steamer,  or  perhaps 
he's  a  member  of  the  Broadway  squad,  earning  a 
living  by  elbowing  ladies  over  the  crossing." 

"I  hope  he  has  as  good  a  berth  as  that,"  the 
professor  answered;  "but  I  don't  believe  that 
Johnny  Carroll  would  stay  on  the  force  long, 
even  if  he  got  the  appointment.  Do  you  remem 
ber  how  well  he  sang  '  The  Son  of  a  Gamboleer '  ?" 

It  was  this  question  of  the  professor's  which 
Robert  White  remembered  after  he  had  got  off 


156  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

the  coach  and  was  walking  towards  Madison 
Square.  Three  young  fellows,  mere  boys  two 
of  them,  were  staggering  on  just  in  front  of  him. 
They  were  arm  in  arm,  in  hope  of  a  triplicate  sta 
bility  quite  unattainable  without  more  ballast  than 
they  carried,  and  they  were  singing  the  song  John 
ny  Carroll  had  made  his  own  in  college.  The  wind 
was  still  sharpening,  and  the  wooden  signs  which 
projected  across  the  sidewalk  here  and  there  swung 
heavily  as  they  felt  its  force.  There  were  knots  of 
eager  young  men  and  boys  going  to  and  fro  before 
the  brilliantly  lighted  porticos  of  the  hotels. 

As  White  stepped  aside  to  get  out  of  the  way 
of  one  of  these  groups,  rather  more  hilarious  than 
the  others,  he  knocked  into  a  man  who  was  stand 
ing  up  against  the  glaring  window  of  a  restaurant. 
The  man  was  thin  and  pinched  ;  his  face  was  clean 
shaven  and  blue  ;  his  clothes  were  threadbare  ;  his 
attitude  was  as  though  he  were  pressing  close  to 
the  glass  in  the  hope  of  a  reflected  warmth. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  cried  White. 

The  man  turned  stiffly.  "  It's  of  no  con — "  he 
began,  then  he  saw  White's  face  in  the  bright 
light  which  streamed  across  the  sidewalk.  He 
stopped,  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
away. 

The  moment  had  been  enough  for  White  to  rec 
ognize  him.  "  Johnny  Carroll !"  he  called. 

The  man  continued  to  move  away. 

White  overtook  him  in  two  strides,  and  laid  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Johnny  !"  he  said  again. 


A    THANKSGIVING-DAY    DINNER  15? 

The  man  faced  about  and  answered  doubtfully, 
11  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?" 

"  Is  this  really  you,  Johnny  Carroll  ?"  asked 
White,  as  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  other,  "  it's  Johnny  Carroll 
— and  you  are  Bob  White." 

White's  hand  was  still  extended.  After  a  long 
pause  his  classmate  took  it.  White  was  shocked 
at  the  chill  of  Carroll's  fingers.  "Why,  man," 
he  cried,  "  you  are  cold." 

"  Well,"  the  other  answered,  simply,  "  why  not? 
It  isn't  the  first  time."  Then,  after  a  swift  glance 
at  White's  face,  he  turned  his  own  away  and  said, 
"  I'm  hungry,  too,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  White,  cordially.  "  I  was  go 
ing  to  have  my  Thanksgiving  dinner  alone.  Will 
you  join  me,  Johnny  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?"  asked  the  other. 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  dine  together  ?"  White  re 
sponded,  setting  off  briskly  and  putting  his  arm 
through  his  classmate's.  uOur  team  has  won  to 
day,  you  know — eighteen  to  nothing;  we'll  cele 
brate  the  victory." 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?"  inquired  Johnny, 
uneasily. 

"To  the  College  Club,  of  course,"  answered 
White.  "  We'll—" 

"I  mustn't  go  there,"  said  Johnny,  stopping 
short.  "I  couldn't  face  them  now.  I  —  oh,  I 
couldn't !" 

"Very  well,  then,"  White  agreed.     "Where 


158  VIGNETTES   OF   MANHATTAN 

» 

shall  we  go?     What  do  you  say  to  Dehnoni- 
co's  ?" 

Again  Johnny  asked  :  "  Do  you  mean  it  ?  Hon 
est  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it,  Johnny,"  he  replied. 

"I  haven't  been  in  Delmonico's  for  ten  years 
and  more,"  said  the  other.  "  I'd  like  to  have  just 
another  dinner  there.  But  you  can't  take  me 
there.  Look  at  me  !" 

White  looked  at  him.  The  thin  coat  was  but 
toned  tight ;  it  was  very  worn,  and  yet  it  was 
not  ragged  ;  it  was  in  better  condition  than  the 
hat  or  the  boots. 

As  the  two  men  stood  there  facing  each  other 
on  the  corner  of  the  street  there  was  a  foretaste 
of  winter  in  the  wind  which  smote  them  and  ate 
into  their  marrow. 

White  linked  his  arm  again  in  his  classmate's. 
"  I've  seen  you  look  sweller,  Johnny,  I  confess," 
he  said  ;  "but  I  haven't  dressed  for  dinner  my 
self  to-night." 

"So  it's  Delmonico's?"  Johnny  asked. 

"  It's  Delmonico's,"  White  responded. 

"Then  take  me  into  the  cafe,"  said  the  other. 
"I  can  stand  the  men,  I  think,  but  I'm  not  in 
shape  to  go  into  the  restaurant  where  the  women 
are." 

"Very  well,"  agreed  White.  "We'll  try  the 
cafe." 

When  they  entered  the  cafe  it  was  crowded 
with  young  men.  There  was  already  a  blue  haze 


A   THANKSGIVING-DAY   DINNER  159 

of  smoke  over  the  heads  of  the  noisy  throng. 
Boys  drinking  champagne  at  adjacent  tables 
were  calling  across  to  each  other  with  boisterous 
merriment. 

White  was  able  to  secure  a  small  table  near 
the  corner  on  the  Broadway  side.  As  he  walked 
over  to  it  he  nodded  to  half  a  score  of  acquaint 
ances,  some  of  whom  looked  askant  at  his  compan 
ion,  and  exchanged  whispered  comments  after  he 
had  passed. 

Apparently  Johnny  neither  saw  the  looks  nor 
heard  the  whispers.  He  followed  White  as  if  in 
a  dream  ;  and  White  had  noticed  that  when  they 
had  entered  the  heated  room  Carroll  had  drawn  a 
long  breath  as  though  to  warm  himself. 

"  I  don't  need  an  overcoat  in  here,"  he  said,  as 
he  took  the  chair  opposite  White's  with  the  little 
marble-topped  table  between  them. 

When  the  waiter  had  deftly  laid  the  cloth, 
Johnny  fingered  its  fair  softness,  as  with  a  cat 
like  enjoyment  of  its  cleanness. 

"Now,  what  shall  we  have?"  asked  White,  as 
the  waiter  handed  him  the  bill  of  fare  in  its  nar 
row  frame.  "  What  would  you  like  ?" 

"  I  ?"  the  guest  responded  ;  "  oh,  anything — 
whatever  you  want — some  roast  beef." 

"Then  your  taste  has  changed  since  you  left 
college,"  White  declared.  "I  asked  you  what 
you  would  like" 

11  What  Pd  like  ?"  echoed  Johnny.  "  Do  you 
mean  it  ?  Honest  ?" 


160  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

White  smiled  as  the  old  college  phrase  dropped 
again  from  the  lips  of  his  classmate. 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it,"  he  said  ;  "  honest. 
There's  the  bill  of  fare.  Order  what  you  please. 
And  remember  that  it  is  Thanksgiving,  and  that 
Pm  hungry,  and  that  I  want  a  good  dinner." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Johnny,  as  he  took  the 
bill  of  fare.  He  was  already  warmer,  and  now 
he  seemed  to  expand  a  little  with  the  unwonted 
luxury  of  the  occasion. 

He  looked  over  the  bill  of  fare  carefully. 

"Blue  Points  on  the  half-shell,  of  course,"  he 
began,  adding  to  the  waiter,  "  be  sure  that  they 
are  on  the  deep  shell.  Green  turtle  soup  —  the 
green  turtle  here  used  to  be  very  good  fifteen 
years  ago.  Filet  de  sole,  d  la  Mornay — the  sole  is 
flounder,  I  suppose,  but  d  la  Mornay  a  man  could 
eat  a  Hebrew  manuscript.  Then  a  canvas-back 
apiece  —  two  canvas -back,  you  understand,  real 
canvas-back,  not  red-head  or  mallard— with  samp, 
of  course,  and  a  mayonnaise  of  celery.  Then  a 
bit  of  Chedder  cheese  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  How 
will  that  suit  you,  White  ?" 

"That  will  suit  me,"  White  responded.  "And 
now  what  wine  ?" 

"  Wine,  too  ?"  Johnny  queried. 

White  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Well,  Pll  go  you,"  the  guest  went  on.  "I 
might  as  well  see  the  thing  through,  if  you  are 
bound  to  do  it  in  style."  He  turned  over  the  bill 
of  fare  and  scanned  the  wine  list  on  the  under 


"  WHITE    SECURED    A   SMALL    TABLE    NEAR   THE    CORNER ! 


A    THANKSGIVING-DAY  DINNER  161 

side.  "Yquem  '74  with  the  oysters;  and  they 
tell  me  there  is  a  Silver  Seal  Special  '84  brut  that 
is  better  than  anything  one  has  tasted  before. 
Give  us  a  quart  of  that  with  the  duck.  And  let 
us  have  it  as  soon  as  you  can." 

He  handed  the  bill  of  fare  to  the  waiter,  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  he  ventured  to  glance 
about  the  room. 

The  oysters  were  brought  very  soon,  and  when 
Johnny  had  eaten  them  and  part  of  a  roll,  and 
when  he  had  drunk  two  glasses  of  the  Yquem, 
White  said  to  him  :  "  Tell  me  something  about 
yourself.  What  have  you  been  doing  all  these 
years  ?" 

Johnny's  face  fell  a  little.  "  I've  done  pretty 
nearly  everything,"  he  answered,  "  from  driving 
a  Fifth  Avenue  stage  to  keeping  books  for  a 
Third  Avenue  pawnbroker.  I've  been  a  waiter  at 
a  Coney  Island  chowder  saloon.  Two  summers 
ago  I  waited  on  the  man  who  has  just  taken  our 
order — I  waited  on  him  more  than  once.  I've 
dealt  faro,  too." 

The  waiter  brought  the  soup  and  served  them. 

When  he  left  them  alone  again,  White  asked : 
"  Can't  some  of  your  old  friends  help  you  out  of 
this — give  you  a  start  and  set  you  up  again  ?" 

"It's  no  good  trying,"  Johnny  replied.  "You 
can't  pull  me  up  now.  It's  too  late.  I  guess  it 
was  too  late  from  the  start." 

"  Why  don't  you  drop  this  place  ?"  White  que 
ried,  "and  go  out  West,  and—" 


162  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  about  that?"  John 
ny  interrupted.  "I  can't  live  away  from  New 
York.  If  I  got  out  of  sight  of  that  tower  over 
there  I'd  die." 

"You  will  die  here  soon  enough  at  this  rate," 
White  answered. 

"  That's  so,  too,"  admitted  Johnny ;  "  but  it 
can't  be  helped  now."  He  was  eating  steadily, 
sturdily,  but  not  ravenously. 

After  the  waiter  had  served  the  fish,  White 
asked  again,  "What  can  we  do  for  you  ?" 

"Nothing,"  Johnny  answered — "nothing  at  all. 
Yes,  you  can  give  me  a  five,  if  you  like,  or  a  ten  ; 
but  don't  give  me  your  address,  or  the  first  time 
I'm  down  again  I'd  look  you  up  and  strike  you 
for  ten  more." 

A  band  of  undergraduates,  twenty  of  them  or 
more,  four  abreast,  arm  in  arm,  went  tramping 
down  Broadway,  yelling  forth  the  chorus  of  a  col 
lege  song. 

"  You  used  to  sing  that  song,  Johnny,"  said 
White. 

"I  used  to  do  lots  of  things,"  he  answered,  as 
the  waiter  opened  the  champagne. 

"I  never  heard  anybody  get  as  much  out  of 
'The  Son  of  a  Gamboleer'  as  you  did,"  White 
continued. 

"I  joined  a  negro -minstrel  troupe  as  second 
tenor  twelve  years  ago,  but  we  got  stranded  in 
Hartford,  and  I  had  to  walk  home.  I've  tried  to 
do  a  song  and  dance  in  the  Bowery  dime  muse- 


A    THANKSGIVING-DAY   DINNER  163 

urns  since  then,  more  than  once.  But  it's  no 
use." 

When  they  had  made  an  end  of  the  canvas- 
backs  and  the  brut  '84,  Johnny  sat  back  in  his 
chair  and  smiled,  and  said,  "Well,  this  was  worth 
while." 

Then  the  coffee  came,  and  White  said,  "  You 
forgot  to  order  the  liqueur,  Johnny." 

"  You  see  what  it  is  to  be  out  of  practice,"  he 
replied.  "  I'd  like  some  orange  curagoa." 

"And  I  will  take  a  little  green  mint,"  said 
White  to  the  waiter.  "  And  bring  some  cigars — 
Henry  Clays." 

"  That's  right,"  Johnny  declared.  "  My  father 
was  always  a  Henry  Clay  man,  and  I  suppose 
that's  why  I  like  those  cigars." 

After  the  cigars  were  lighted  White  looked 
his  companion  square  in  the  face.  "Are  you 
sure,"  he  asked,  "that  we  can  do  nothing  for 
you  ?" 

"  Dead  sure,"  was  the  answer. 

"Nothing?" 

"You  have  given  me  a  good  dinner,"  said  John 
ny.  "  That's  enough.  That's  more  than  most  of 
my  old  friends  would  give  me.  And  there's  noth 
ing  more  to  be  done." 

White  held  his  peace  for  the  moment. 

Johnny  took  a  long  sip  of  his  coffee,  and  drew 
three  or  four  times  at  his  cigar.  "  That's  a  first- 
rate  cigar,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't  smoked  a  Henry 
Clay  for  nearly  two  years,  and  then  I  picked  up 


164  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

one  a  man  had  lighted,  between  the  acts,  outside 
of  Daly's." 

He  puffed  at  it  again  with  voluptuous  appreci 
ation,  and  then  leaned  across  the  table  to  White 
and  remarked,  confidentially,  "  Do  you  know,  Bob, 
'most  everything  I've  cared  for  in  this  world  has 
been  immoral,  or  expensive,  or  indigestible." 

"  Yes,"  White  admitted  ;  "  I  suppose  that's  the 
cause  of  your  bad  luck." 

"  I've  had  lots  of  luck  in  my  life,"  was  the  re 
sponse,  "  good  and  bad — better  than  I  deserved, 
most  of  it — this  dinner,  for  example ;  I  should  re 
member  it  even  without  to-morrow's  dyspepsia. 
But  what's  the  use  of  anticipating  evil  ?  I'll  let 
the  next  day  take  care  of  itself,  and  make  the  best 
of  this  one.  There  are  several  hours  of  it  left — 
where  shall  we  go  now  ?" 

(1892.) 


in  ®  i  ®  i  ®  m  ®  i  ®  it  ®  is!  ®  w  ®  in «  in  @  in  ®  in  @  nie 


n    t/ie> 

of  Jbif 


T  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  John 
Suydam  turned  into  Twenty -third 
Street,  and  he  remarked  the  absence 
of  the  gleam  of  color  generally  visi 
ble  far  away  to  the  westward  beyond 
the  end  of  the  street  and  across  the  river.  There 
was  no  red  vista  that  Christmas  Eve,  for  the  sky 
was  overcast  and  lowering,  and  there  was  a 
damp  chill  in  the  air,  a  premonition  of  approach 
ing  snow.  It  was  about  the  edge  of  dusk  as  he 
skirted  Madison  Square  and  saw  the  electric- 
lights  twinkle  out  suddenly  up  and  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  in  the  square  here  and  there. 

The  young  man  crossed  Broadway,  skilfully 
avoiding  a  huge  express  wagon,  and  springing 
lightly  out  of  the  path  of  a  clanging  cable-car. 
He  crossed  Fifth  Avenue,  threading  his  way 
through  the  carriages  and  the  carts  piled  high 
with  paper  -  covered  packages.  The  white  walls 
of  the  hotel  on  the  opposite  side  of  Twenty-third 
Street  were  dingy  under  the  leaden  sky  as  the 
haze  of  the  swift  twilight  settled  down.  The 
wind  died  away  altogether,  and  yet  the  atmos 
phere  was  raw  and  dank.  Suydam  bought  an 
evening  paper  from  the  crippled  newsboy  who  sat 


168  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

in  his  rolling-chair,  warmly  wrapped  against  the 
weather,  and  seemingly  cheerful  and  contented 
with  his  takings. 

A  few  steps  farther  the  young  man  passed  an 
old  French  sailor  standing  on  the  curb-stone,  and 
using  his  single  hand  to  wind  the  machinery  of  a 
glazed  box,  wherein  a  ship  was  to  be  seen  tossing 
on  the  regular  waves  while  a  train  of  cars  kept 
crossing  a  bridge  which  spanned  an  estuary. 
Almost  under  the  sailor's  feet  there  was  an  old 
woman  huddled  in  a  dirty  heap  over  a  tiny  hand- 
organ,  from  which  she  was  slowly  grinding  a 
doubtful  and  dolorous  tune.  By  her  side,  but  a 
little  beyond,  two  boys  were  offering  for  sale 
green  wreaths  and  stars  and  ropes  of  greenery, 
to  be  used  in  festooning.  Close  to  the  broad 
windows  of  a  dry-goods  store,  whence  a  yellow 
light  streamed  forth,  a  tall,  thin  man  had  a  board 
on  a  trestle,  and  on  this  portable  table  he  was 
showing  off  the  antics  of  a  toy  clown  who  tum 
bled  artlessly  down  a  steep  flight  of  steps.  The 
people  who  hurried  past,  with  parcels  under  their 
arms,  rarely  stopped  to  look  at  the  ship  tossing  on 
the  waves,  or  to  listen  to  the  hesitating  tune  of 
the  wheezy  organ,  or  to  buy  a  bit  of  green  or- a 
performing  clown.  Yet  the  open-air  bazaar,  as  it 
might  plainly  be  called,  the  out-door  fair,  extended 
all  the  way  along  the  street,  and  on  both  edges  of 
the  sidewalk  the  fakirs  were  trying  to  gather  in 
their  scanty  Christmas  harvest. 

Before  John   Suydam  came  to   the  corner  of 


IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE  169 

Sixth  Avenue  the  snow  began  at  last  to  fall ;  the 
first  flakes  descended  hesitatingly,  scurried  by  a 
brief  wind  that  sprang  up  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  then  died  away  absolutely.  After  a  while 
the  snow  thickened  and  fell  faster,  sifting  down 
softly  and  silently,  but  filling  the  air  under  the 
electric-lights  which  were  clustered  at  the  corner, 
and  reddening  under  the  glare  of  the  engines  on. 
the  elevated  railroad  overhead,  as  the  cars  rushed 
along  girt  with  swirling  clouds  of  steam.  The 
snow  clustered  upon  the  boughs  of  the  unsold 
Christmas-trees  which  stood  irregularly  along  the 
sidewalk  before  a  florist's  a  few  doors  down  Sixth 
Avenue,  and  by  the  time  Suydam  had  turned  the 
corner,  they  looked  like  the  shrouded  ghosts  of 
balsam  pines. 

All  along  the  avenue  he  had  to  make  his  way 
through  the  same  crowds  of  belated  Christinas 
shoppers,  hurrying  in  and  out  of  the  overgrown 
stores,  availing  themselves  of  their  last  chance  to 
buy  gifts  for  the  morrow  ;  but  as  he  advanced, 
the  throng  thinned  a  little,  driven  home  perhaps 
by  the  snow-storm.  Yet  though  the  purchasers 
were  fewer,  the  peddlers  persisted.  Suydam 
noted  one  old  man,  bent  and  shrivelled,  and  with 
a  long  gray  beard,  who  had  a  tray  before  him 
hung  on  a  strap  over  his  shoulders,  and  on  the 
narrow  board  were  plaster  figures  of  Santa  Claus 
carrying  aloft  a  branching  Christmas-tree  be 
sprinkled  with  glittering  crystalline  flakes.  Under 
(lie  hood  of  the  staircase  of  the  station  of  the 


170  VIGNETTES    OP    MANHATTAN 

elevated  railroad  he  saw  a  little  blind  woman 
wrapped  in  a  scant  shawl,  silently  proffering  half 
a  dozen  lead-pencils.  And  high  over  the  centre 
of  the  roadway  the  snow -clad  trains  thundered 
up  and  down,  with  white  plumes  of  steam  trailing 
from  the  engines. 

As  Suydam  neared  Fourteenth  Street  he  found 
the  crowds  compacting  again  ;  and  at  the  corner 
there  was  a  chaos  of  carriages,  carts,  and  street 
cars.  The  flights  of  stairs  leading  to  the  elevated 
railroad  station  were  packed  with  people  bearing 
bundles  and  boxes,  most  of  them,  ascending  and 
descending  with  difficulty,  jostling  one  another 
good-naturedly.  Long  lines  of  children  of  all 
ages  spread  along  the  wide  plate  -  glass  windows 
at  the  corner  of  one  huge  store,  gazing  wonder- 
ingly  at  a  caravan  of  toy  animals  in  gorgeous 
trappings,  with  chariots  and  palanquins,  which 
kept  circling  around  in  front  of  painted  palm- 
trees  and  gayly-decorated  tents.  The  snow  was 
now  falling  fast,  but  still  the  young  ones  looked 
admiringly  and  waited  willingly,  though  their 
hats  were  whitened,  and  though  the  soft  flakes 
melted  on  their  capes  and  on  their  coats. 

The  mass  of  humanity  clustering  about  these 
windows  forced  Suydam  almost  to  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk  ;  but  this  was  the  last  crowd  he  had  to 
make  his  way  through.  Lower  down  there  were 
no  solid  groups,  although  the  avenue  was  still 
thronged.  He  was  able  to  quicken  his  pace.  So 
he  sped  along,  passing  the  butchers',  where  car- 


IX    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE  171 

casses  of  sheep  and  of  beeves  hung  in  line  gar 
landed  with  ropes  of  evergreen  ;  passing  the  gro 
cers',  where  the  shelves  were  battlemented  with 
cans  of  food  ;  passing  the  bakers',  where  bread 
and  cakes,  pies  and  crullers,  were  displayed  in 
trays  and  in  baskets.  He  glanced  into  the  yellow 
windows  of  candy-stores,  and  saw  the  parti-colored 
sweetmeats  temptingly  spread  out.  He  caught 
a  glimpse  of  more  than  one  dealer  in  delicatessen 
whose  display  of  silver-clad  sausage  and  heavy 
pasty  and  wicker-work  flask  was  enough  to  stim 
ulate  the  appetite  of  a  jaded  epicure.  He  saw 
the  signs  of  a  time  of  plenty,  but  no  one  knew 
better  than  John  Suydam  that  just  then  there 
was  truly  a  season  of  want. 

Night  had  fallen  before  he  reached  the  court 
house,  with  its  high  roof  and  its  lofty  turret,  be 
fore  he  came  to  the  market,  with  its  yawning 
baskets  of  vegetables  and  its  long  rows  of  pen 
dent  turkeys  beneath  the  flaring  jets  of  gas.  He 
crossed  the  avenue  and  turned  into  a  small  street 
— not  here  at  right  angles  to  the  thoroughfare,  as 
are  the  most  of  the  side  streets  of  New  York.  At 
last  he  stopped  before  a  little  house,  an  old  two- 
story  building,  worn  with  long  use,  and  yet  digni 
fied  in  its  decay.  The  tiny  dwelling  had  a  Dutch 
roof,  with  two  dormer-windows  ;  and  it  had  been 
built  when  the  Dutch  traditions  of  New  Amster 
dam  were  stronger  than  they  are  to-day. 

The  young  man  mounted  the  high  stoop,  on 
which  the  snow  was  now  nearly  half  an  inch 


172  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

thick.  He  rang  the  bell  twice  with  a  measured 
interval  between.  The  flying  step  of  a  girl  was 
heard,  and  then  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
Suydam  disappeared  within  the  little  old  house. 

As  the  d'oor  closed,  the  young  man  took  the 
young  woman  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  said,  "it  is  so  good  of  you  to 
come  on  Christmas  Eve.  How  did  you  manage  to 
get  away  ?" 

"  I've  only  two  hours,"  he  answered,  "  and  I 
had  to  get  something  to  eat,  so  I  thought  that 
perhaps  you — " 

"  Of  course  we  can,"  the  girl  interrupted.  "  And 
mother  will  be  delighted.  She  has  made  one  of 
her  old-fashioned  chicken  pies,  and  it's  ever  so 
much  too  much  for  us  two.  It  will  be  ready 
at  six." 

"  Then  I  know  where  I'm  going  to  get  my  din 
ner,"  her  lover  returned,  as  he  followed  her  into 
the  little  parlor.  "  But  I  shall  have  to  go  back 
as  soon  as  Pve  had  it.  I've  told  them  that  I  think 
the  office  ought  to  be  kept  open  till  midnight,  and 
I  said  I'd  stay.  It  would  be  a  sorrowful  thing, 
wouldn't  it,  if  any  one  who  wants  help  couldn't 
get  it  on  Christmas  Eve  ?" 

"And  there  must  be  many  who  wrant  help  this 
hard  winter,"  said  the  girl.  "I  went  as  far  as 
Broadway  this  afternoon,  on  an  errand  for  moth 
er,  and  I  passed  six  beggars — " 

"  Oh,  beggars — "  he  began. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  interrupted  again.     "I  did 


IN   THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE  173 

not  give  them  anything,  though  it  seemed  so  cruel 
not  to.  I  knew  what  you  thought  about  indis 
criminate  charity,  and  so  I  steeled  my  heart.  And 
I  suffered  for  it,  too.  I  know  I  should  have  felt 
happier  if  I  had  given  something  to  one  or  two 
of  them." 

"  I  suppose  you  did  deprive  yourself  of  the  virt 
uous  glow  of  self-satisfaction,"  Suydam  admit 
ted.  "  But  that  virtuous  glow  is  too  cheap  to 
be  valuable.  If  we  want  to  help  our  neighbor 
really,  we  must  practise  self-sacrifice,  and  not  pur 
chase  an  inexpensive  self -gratification  at  the  cost 
of  his  self-respect." 

"  I  should  feel  as  though  I  wasn't  spending 
Christmas  if  I  didn't  give  away  something,"  she 
protested. 

"  Exactly,"  he  returned.  "You  haven't  yet 
freed  yourself  from  the  pestilent  influence  of 
Dickens,  though  you  have  much  more  sense,  too, 
than  nine  women  out  of  ten.  You  have  blindly 
followed  the  belief  that  you  ought  to  give  for 
your  own  sake,  without  thinking  whether  it  was 
best  for  the  beggar  to  receive.  Dickens's  Christ 
mas  stories  are  now  breeding  their  third  genera 
tion  of  paupers  ;  and  I  doubt  if  we  can  convince 
the  broad  public  of  the  absurdity  of  his  sociology 
in  another  half-century.  It  takes  science  to  solve 
problems  ;  hysteric  emotionalism  won't  do  it." 

"You  don't  think  all  the  beggars  I  saw  to-day 
were  humbugs,  do  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  There  isn't  one  chance  in  ten  that  any  one  of 


174  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

the  half -dozen  is  really  in  need,"  he  answered  ; 
"  and  probably  five  out  of  the  six  have  taken  to 
begging  partly  out  of  laziness,  and  partly  because 
they  can  beg  larger  wages  than  they  can  earn 
honestly." 

"  But  there  was  one  old  man  ;  he  must  have 
been  forty,  at  least,"  urged  the  girl,  "  who  was 
positively  starving.  Why,  just  as  I  turned  out 
of  Broadway,  I  saw  him  spring  down  to  the  gut 
ter  and  pick  up  a  crust  of  bread  and  begin  to  eat 
it  greedily.  I  felt  in  my  pocket  for  my  purse,  of 
course,  but  a  gentleman  had  seen  it,  too,  and  he 
went  up  to  the  man  and  talked  to  him  and  gave 
him  a  five-dollar  bill.  Now,  there  was  a  real  case 
of  distress,  wasn't  it  ?" 

Suydam  smiled,  sadly.  "  The  starving  man  was 
about  forty,  you  say  ?  Tall  and  thin,  wasn't  he, 
with  a  thin,  pointed  beard,  and  a  mark  on  his  right 
cheek  ?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  "  Why,  how 
did  you  know?"  she  cried. 

"  That's  Scar-faced  Charley,"  he  answered. 

"And  is  he  a  humbug,  too?"  she  asked. 

"I  followed  him  for  two  hours  one  afternoon 
last  week,"  he  explained,  "  and  I  saw  him  pick 
up  that  bit  of  bread  and  pretend  to  eat  it  at  least 
twenty  times.  When  I  had  him  arrested  he  had 
more  than  ten  dollars  in  his  pockets." 

"Well,"  the  young  woman  declared,  "I  shall 
never  believe  in  anybody  again." 

"But  I  don't  see  how  it  is  Scar-faced  Charley 


IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE  175 

is  out  to-day,"  Suydam  wont  on.  "  We  had  him 
sent  up  for  a  month  only,  for  the  judge  was  easy 
with  him.  If  he's  out  again  so  soon,  I  suppose 
he  must  have  a  pull  of  some  sort.  Those  fellows 
often  have  more  influence  than  you  would  think." 

"  He  took  me  in  completely,"  the  girl  admitted. 
"  If  Scar-faced  Charley,  as  you  call  him,  can  act 
so  well,  why  doesn't  he  go  on  the  stage  and  earn 
an  honest  living  ?" 

"  That's  the  first  thing  that  astonished  me  when 
I  went  to  live  in  the  University  Settlement  last 
spring,  and  began  to  study  out  these  things  for 
myself.  I  found  beggars  who  were  fond  of  their 
profession,  and  who  prided  themselves  on  their 
skill.  What  are  you  to  do  with  them  ?  And  if  you 
let  them  ply  their  trade,  how  are  you  going  to  dis 
tinguish  them  from  those  who  are  really  in  need  ?" 

"  It  is  all  very  puzzling  to  me,"  the  girl  con 
fessed.  "  Since  I've  heard  you  talk,  charity 
doesn't  seem  half  as  simple  as  it  used  to." 

"  No,"  said  Suydam,  "  it  isn't  simple.  In  fact, 
it  is  about  as  complicated  and  complex  a  problem 
as  the  twentieth  century  will  have  to  solve.  But 
I'm  coming  to  one  conclusion  fast,  and  that  is 
that  the  way  to  tell  those  who  need  help  from 
those  who  don't  need  it  is,  that  the  latter  ask  for 
it,  and  the  former  won't.  New  York  is  rich  and 
generous,  and  there's  never  any  difficulty  about 
getting  money  enough  to  relieve  every  case  of 
distress  in  the  city  limits — none  whatever.  The 
real  difficulty  is  in  getting  the  money  to  the  peo- 


176  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

pie  who  really  need  it,  and  in  keeping  it  from  the 
people  who  ought  not  to  have  it.  You  see  that 
those  who  ask  for  assistance  don't  deserve  it — not 
once  in  fifty  times  ;  and  those  who  deserve  it 
won't  ask  for  it.  There  are  men  and  women — 
women  especially — who  will  starve  before  they 
will  face  the  pity  of  their  fellows.  Every  day  I 
hear  of  cases  of  suffering  borne  silently,  and  dis 
covered  only  by  accident." 

"  I've  been  wondering  for  a  week  if  we  haven't 
one  of  those  cases  in  this  house  now,"  said  the  girl. 

"In  this  house?"  the  young  man  repeated. 

"I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you  all  about  it 
every  day,"  she  went  on,  "  but  I've  seen  so  little 
of  you,  and  when  you  do  come  we  have  so  many 
things  to  talk  about,  you  know." 

"I  know,"  Suydam  repeated.  He  was  seated  by 
her  side  on  the  sofa,  and  his  arm  was  around  her 
waist.  He  drew  her  closer  to  him  and  kissed  her. 
"  Now  tell  me  about  your  case  of  distress,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  the  girl  began,  "  this  house  is  too  big 
for  mother  and  me  alone,  so  we  let  one  room  on 
the  top  floor  to  two  old  ladies.  They  have  been 
here  since  before  Thanksgiving.  They  are  for 
eigners — Cubans,  I  think.  The  mother  must  be 
seventy,  and  I  can  see  she  has  been  very  hand 
some.  The  daughter  is  nearly  fifty,  I'm  sure  ; 
and  a  more  devoted  daughter  you  never  saw.  She 
waits  on  her  mother  hand  and  foot.  They  didn't 
bring  any  baggage  to  speak  of — no  trunk,  only 
just  a  little  bag — and  we  saw  at  once  that  they 


IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE  177 

were  very,  very  poor.  They  paid  two  weeks' 
rent  in  advance,  and  since  then  they've  paid  two 
weeks'  more.  A  fortnight  ago  the  daughter  told 
mother  that  they  would  be  obliged  if  she  would 
let  them  defer  paying  the  rent  for  a  little  while, 
as  a  letter  they  were  expecting  had  not  come. 
And  I  suppose  that  was  so,  for  the  postman  never 
whistled  but  the  daughter  came  running  down 
stairs  to  see  if  there  wasn't  something  for  them. 
But  it  hasn't  come  yet,  and  I  don't  believe  they've 
got  enough  money  to  get  things  to  eat,  hardly. 
The  daughter  used  to  go  out  every  morning,  and 
come  back  with  a  tiny  little  parcel.  You  see, 
there's  a  gas-stove  in  their  room,  and  they  do 
their  own  cooking.  But  she  hasn't  been  out  of 
the  house  for  two  days,  and  we  haven't  seen  either 
of  them  since  the  day  before  yesterday,  when  the 
daughter  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  asked 
if  there  was  a  letter  for  her  mother.  We  can 
hear  them  moving  about  overhead  gently,,  but  we 
haven't  seen  them.  And  now  we  don't  really  know 
what  to  do.  I'm  so  glad  you've  come,  for  I  told 
mother  I  was  going  to  ask  you  about  them." 

"  Do  you  think  they  have  no  money  ?"  Suydam 
asked. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  all  gone,"  she  answered.  "  And 
they  have  no  friends  at  all  so  far  as  we  know." 

"  You  say  they  are  Cubans  ?" 

"  I  think  they  are.  Their  name  is  De  los  Rios — 
Senora  de  los  Rios,  I  heard  the  daughter  call  her 

mother  when  she  asked  the  postman  about  a  letter." 
12 


178  VIGNETTES    OF    MANHATTAN 

"  If  it  wasn't  so  late,"  said  the  young  man,  look 
ing  at  his  watch,  "  I  would  go  to  the  Spanish  Con 
sulate.  But  it's  nearly  six  now,  and  the  consulate 
is  certain  to  be  closed.  If  there  is  any  reason  to 
think  that  they  are  actually  suffering  for  want  of 
food,  can't  you  find  some  feminine  reason  for  in 
truding  on  them." 

"  I'm  afraid  we  can't,"  she  answered.  "  We 
did  try  yesterday  morning.  When  we  found  that 
the  daughter  didn't  go  out  for  something  to  cook, 
we  misdoubted  they  might  be  hungry,  and  so  we 
talked  it  over  and  over,  and  did  our  best  to  hit  on 
some  way  of  helping  them.  At  last  mother  had 
an  idea,  and  she  made  a  sort  of  Spanish  stew  — 
what  they  call  an  olla  podrida,  you  know.  She 
got  the  receipt  out  of  the  cook-book,  and  she  took 
it  up  and  knocked  at  the  door.  They  asked  who 
it  was,  and  they  didn't  open  the  door  but  a  little. 
Mother  told  the  daughter  that  she  had  been  try 
ing  to  make  a  Spanish  dish,  and  she  didn't  know 
as  she'd  got  it  right,  and  so  she'd  come  up  to  ask 
them  as  a  favor  if  they  wouldn't  taste  it,  and  tell 
her  if  it  was  all  right.  You  see  that  was  mother's 
idea.  She  thought  she  might  get  them  to  eat  it 
that  way,  and  save  their  pride.  But  it  wouldn't 
do.  The  daughter  said  that  she  was  sorry,  but  she 
couldn't  taste  it  then,  she  couldn't,  nor  her  mother 
either.  They  had  no  appetite  then,  and  so  they 
couldn't  judge  of  the  olla  podrida.  She  said  they 
had  just  been  cooking  some  chops  and  steaks." 

"Chops  and  steaks?"  echoed  Suydam. 


IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE  179 

"That's  what  she  said,"  the  girl  continued. 
"  But  of  course  that  was  only  her  excuse  for  refus 
ing.  That  was  her  way  of  impressing  on  mother 
that  they  didn't  need  anything.  So  mother  had 
to  give  it  up,  and  bring  the  stew  down -stairs 
again.  Mother  doesn't  feel  so  badly  about  them, 
however,  because  they  had  been  cooking  some 
thing  yesterday.  She  smelt  fish — yesterday  was 
Friday,  you  know." 

"  I  know,"  repeated  the  young  man  ;  "  but  still 
I-" 

Just  then  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  postman  was 
heard,  and  a  sharp  ring  at  the  bell. 

The  girl  jumped  up,  and  went  to  the  door.  As 
she  opened  it  there  came  in  the  faint  melody  of 
distant  sleigh-bells,  and  the  roar  of  the  street  al 
ready  muffled  by  the  snow. 

She  returned  to  the  parlor  with  a  long  blue 
envelope  in  her  hand. 

"  Here  is  the  letter  at  last,"  she  said. 

"What  letter?"  asked  Suydam. 

"  The  letter  the  old  ladies  are  waiting  for,"  she 
answered,  handing  it  to  him. 

He  held  it  up  nearer  the  single  gas-jet  of  the 
parlor  and  read  the  address  aloud,  " '  Marquisa  de 
los  Rios,'  and  it's  registered." 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  returned,  "  and  the  postman  is 
waiting  to  have  the  receipt  signed.  He  said  he 
guessed  it  was  money  or  a  Christmas  present  of 
some  sort,  since  it  had  so  many  seals  on  it.  I 
wanted  you  to  know  about  it ;  but  I'll  take  it 
right  up  now." 


180  VIGNETTES    OF   MANHATTAN 

She  tripped  lightly  up-stairs,  and  John  Suydam 
heard  her  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  room  the 
two  old  ladies  occupied.  After  an  interval  she 
rapped  again,  apparently  without  response.  Then 
he  heard  her  try  the  door  gently. 

Two  seconds  later  her  voice  rang  out  in  a  cry 
of  alarm  :  "Mother  !  mother  !  Oh,  John  !" 

Suydam  sprang  up-stairs,  and  found  her  just 
outside  of  the  door  of  the  old  ladies'  room.  She 
was  trembling,  and  she  gripped  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  said,  "  something  terrible  has 
happened  !  It  was  even  worse  than  I  thought ! 
They  really  were  starving  !" 

Then  she  led  him  silently  into  the  room,  where 
her  mother  joined  them  almost  immediately. 

After  waiting  five  minutes  the  postman  at  the 
front  door  below  became  impatient.  He  rang  the 
bell  sharply  and  whistled  again.  He  was  kicking 
the  snow  off  his  boots  and  swinging  his  arms  to 
keep  warm,  when  at  last  the  door  opened  and 
John  Suydam  appeared,  with  the  long  blue  en 
velope  in  his  hand. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  you  will  have  to  take  this  let 
ter  away  again,"  Suydam  said  to  the  postman. 
"There  is  no  one  here  now  to  sign  for  it.  The 
Marquisa  de  los  Rios  is  dead  !" 


THE    END 


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THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


ECE1VED 


JAN  3  *  1966 


REG.  CIH     Mflf      2 


STACK  DEAD 


i 


SEP  i  u 


•-'.4    •*. 


A.  S 


4! 9443 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


YC149269 


